


Scritches for the Archivist

by junal



Series: The Adventures that Ensue After an Experience as a Cursed Cat [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: "how not to take care of a cat": the fic, Body Horror, Canon Asexual Character, Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Canon-typical Miscommunication, Crack Treated Seriously, Dehumanization, Dermatillomania, Everybody Lives, Fluff, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Knitter Martin, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Starts in S1, and dear god has it moved on from that, canon typical gay pining, it starts out as "a leitner makes everyone think jon's a cat. that's it. that's the plot", like. 30+ chapters before Gay appears, multiple thousands of words of jon dealing with trauma from people thinking he was a cat, s1 jon but he gets put through so much shit in eight chapters that he becomes s3 jon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 62
Words: 144,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23282902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junal/pseuds/junal
Summary: Leitners have... interesting affects, at times.(Or, Jon comes across a Leitner that makes everybody think he's a cat, and deals with the ramifications thereof. Of which there are a lot.)
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker
Series: The Adventures that Ensue After an Experience as a Cursed Cat [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2151843
Comments: 4399
Kudos: 2763





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> how do you post a work anonymously. asking for a friend.
> 
> also, inspired by a series of posts from @elias-fucker on tumblr, so def go check them out, they're legit one of my favorites

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General content warnings for the fic (updated as applicable):  
> -Dehumanization  
> -Dermatillomania  
> -Unreality/hallucination  
> -Body horror  
> -Depiction of injuries, blisters, and hand trauma  
> -Canon-typical worms  
> i put warnings in chapter notes when these appear in great detail with summaries in the chapter end notes, but dehumanization is a consistent theme throughout the majority of the first half of the fic. jon is stuck with a leitner that makes people think he's a cat, and is treated as such, including non-con touching, being picked up, bed-sharing, and being put in a cat collar. 
> 
> also, the tag "how not to take care of a cat: the fic" is very accurate. were jon to actually be a cat, he would have died multiple times over. he's fed food that is good for a human, but would absolutely kill a cat.

“…and the last bit of research is a…” Jon picks up the book gingerly, glancing at the cover. “…cat training manual. Forty years old, at least. _Train Your Cat To Be The Best They Can Be!_ Good lord. Why the hell would Gertrude put a training manual in here? And – can cats even be trained?” Jon scoffs. But he flicks through the pages nonetheless. “Full of what I assume is the usual drivel. Talking about feline body language, which is not the worst thing to know for new cat owners. Tips about raising kittens. A full… eight pages on why you must keep your cat indoors, which is more than I expect from something from the early 70’s.” Jon sighs, puts the book down, and turns off the tape recorder.

But he glances again at the book. There’s no author listed, no publisher, just _Train Your Cat To Be The Best They Can Be!_ in thick black letters across the bottom half of a picture of a cat curled up in an armchair. The title isn’t even written on the spine of the book. With a sigh, Jon flicks to the early pages, searching for a publisher or a date or something of any note.

From the library of Jurgen Leitner.

…Oh. Jon drops the book as he swears violently, scrambling to his feet with a great clatter as his chair falls over.

This – this is not good. He can't feel any physical effect, not yet, but that doesn't mean anything, not with the true variety of horrors that a Leitner can produce.

Jon casts his eyes about his office frantically, looking for a pair of gloves or a plastic bag or something but no, of course not, nowhere in the goddamn mess of her office would Gertrude be kind enough to leave some kind of way to secure a Leitner, _why the fuck was there a Leitner in the fucking research notes –_

The door to Jon’s office swings open, and Jon whirls. It’s Martin, which is less than ideal, but better than nothing.

“Martin, get me a pair of rubber gloves and a bag, I found a Leitner!”

But Martin just surveys the office with a slight frown on his round face, mug of tea in hand. “I – really, Jon, we’ve talked about this,” he sighs, walking into the office and putting the mug down on an unoccupied space of Jon’s desk.

“We’ve talked about this? Please, Martin, tell me when we’ve talked about this!” Jon splutters. And he continues spluttering as Martin walks around his desk, righting the chair with an absent movement, advancing on Jon.

“How did you even get in here? Last I checked, you can’t unlock doors.”

Jon takes a step back as Martin continues to advance, speaking in an odd tone that mixed condescension and affection and amusement.

“I know the furniture down here isn’t always the comfiest to nap on, but really.”

Jon tries to take another step back, but hits a wall.

“Come on, you,” Martin sighs, reaching out with both hands. And he picks Jon up.

Jon shrieks, flailing, swiping at Martin’s head, but Martin avoids his frenzied attack with practiced ease.

“This door is locked for a reason,” Martin says, shifting Jon in his arms to free up one hand for the cup of tea, “and that reason is that it's not for kitties.” Martin weaves his way out of the cluttered office with ease, pushing the door shut with his elbow, and ambled back into the open area where research assistants worked.

Jon glowers at Tim, who is playing what looks to be Tetris on his phone.

He glowers at Sasha, who isn’t paying much attention.

“What was he doing this time?” Sasha asks from her desk, not looking away from her computer.

Was everybody in on this joke?

“I think he got spooked,” Martin says, depositing Jon in an armchair that certainly had not been in here three hours ago, when Jon had last emerged from his office. “He got into the old Archivist’s office, somehow.”

Tim snorts. “Not sure why you thought this would be a good idea,” he says, putting his phone down.

Martin just scowls, and puts his tea down. “Cats are lovely companion creatures and are very good judges of character,” Martin says, and reaches out in the general direction of Jon’s hair, which, Jon knows that it’s probably come undone from its braid, but _no._

Jon swipes at Martin’s hand, scowling.

“Excellent judges of character,” Tim drawls from his desk with a grin, and Martin frowns.

“They just take time to warm up to people,” he says, a bit defensively, and sits down at his desk.

Jon sighs, runs his hand over his face. “I understand I’ve been working you rather hard lately,” he admits grudgingly, “but this is just immature.”

“He’s really chatty,” Sasha comments from her desk, pulling out one of her earbuds.

“If you had any complaints, you could have brought them to me –” Tim gets up from his desk, stretching as he does, and Jon freezes.

“Do you think we should get him some toys?” Tim asks, ambling over to the armchair and crouching down in front of Jon. He holds a hand out, palm up, and smiles at Jon as he makes little cooing noises.

Jon glowers at Tim. "Don't you dare."

“Or maybe he’s just one of those cats who always looks mad,” Tim suggests, carefully inching his hand towards Jon’s hair. Jon slaps Tim’s hand away.

“Or maybe he’s just a grump,” Sasha calls.

_“Or maybe_ he’s overwhelmed with a new environment that’s always changing,” Martin says. “Leave off, Tim. He’s still getting used to it.”

Tim shrugs, stands. “We should get some cat treats. That should get him to like us.”

“Do you have any idea what’s in those things?” Martin scoffs.

Jon rolls onto his back, stares up at the ceiling.

“No, I’ll – I’ll find some recipes for cat food. Kibble is awful and canned food reeks. I’ll just. Make him some food and bring it in every day.”

Is this some kind of cosmic joke? 


	2. Catjon part two electric boogaloo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is picked up again.
> 
> Tim plays Tetris.
> 
> Sasha listens to dubstep, and is vaguely productive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: thinks i set this as a wip  
> me: did not do that
> 
> also, I want to restate that this is not my idea -- it completely belongs to elias-fucker on tumblr, who has graciously allowed me to play around with it.

“No no no, don’t go in there!”

Jon turns with a scowl as Martin chases after him _again_ , harrumphs as he’s unceremoniously scooped up into Martin’s arms.

“That’s Artefact Storage, Jon, you should not go in there!”

“Yes, Martin, that’s very much the point of my going down there, as we presently have an unsecured Leitner sitting on my desk that nobody else seems to see,” Jon says dryly, legs swinging awkwardly for a moment before Martin adjusts his grip.

“Chatty little boy, though, aren’t you, though?” Martin coos, twisting his neck as he walks in an attempt to – what? Kiss Jon’s forehead?

Jon isn’t sure, but lightly smacking Martin in the face puts a stop to it.

“Aww, no kisses? Alright.”

“Oh my god.” Jon turns his gaze up to the ceiling as Martin carries him back to the same godforsaken armchair, and carefully deposits him there in a graceless sprawl from which Jon can’t be bothered to right himself. 

“How’s our excellent judge of character doing?” Tim calls from his desk, where, if Jon’s correct in judging how his fingers are moving, he has gone from Tetris to Candy Crush.

“Shut up, Tim,” Martin retorts, but there’s no heat in it. “He was going towards Artefact Storage.”

“Can he even get in there?” Sasha asks.

“Yes he can, since the cruel universe that has done this to me has not taken my keys,” Jon says. He doesn’t pointedly jangle said keys, though. Martin would probably take them from him, and Jon doesn’t want to deal with that.

And then. And then. Martin leans over, hand straying suspiciously towards Jon’s hair again.

Jon stares Martin directly in the eye. “I will bite you,” he vows. And Martin’s hand – falters.

Has the joke finally ended? Dear god, please let it have _ended_.

“He still doesn’t seem happy,” Martin says to the others, frowning slightly. “Do you think he’s hungry?”

“Fuck if I know,” Tim says, putting his phone down. “You planning on going and getting him some sushi? He just looks like the kind of cat who’d really appreciate how his food is presented, y’know?”

“I hate sushi,” Jon announces to the room at large, and is thoroughly ignored by all save Martin, who shushes Jon and makes an abortive attempt at patting Jon’s head before thinking better of it.

“…Have we told Elias, yet?” Sasha asks after a long moment full of three Archival Assistants ignoring Jon and like one would ignore, oh, he doesn’t know, maybe a cat?

Unfortunately, Elias does not take that as his cue to appear and finally put a _stop_ to this nonsense.

“It was his idea, wasn’t it?” Tim says, frowning. “You must’ve had headphones in.”

“Probably,” Sasha agrees, turning back to her computer. From the stray headphone, Jon swears he can hear dubstep.

The Archives probably has a degree of access to legal codes, Jon thinks – perhaps he can find out the ramifications of _murdering his assistants for doing this to him_.

And then Jon yelps as a blanket hits him squarely in the stomach. Tim laughs; Jon turns his head to see a thoroughly apologetic Martin awkwardly fluttering his hands as he tries to right the blanket and spread it around Jon.

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m sorry,” Martin says, tone very similar to the one he usually takes around Jon, all nervous and worried. “Here, let me just –” he tucks the last of the blanket in around Jon, which really just results in it awkwardly squished between Jon’s side and the back of the chair because not even Martin is dense enough to try and tuck in a cat.

But Jon harrumphs, rights himself, and shoves the blanket into a corner of the chair. He’s not so rude as to throw it back at Martin, but nor is he going to _use_ it.

“Really, Martin, how did you think that would go?” Tim teases, picking up his phone again. “Look, I’ll order treats from Amazon, they’ll be here by four –”

“No, those are awful!” Martin turns to Tim, but Jon can still see his stubborn and concerned expression in profile. “Full of nasty things that nice cats don’t deserve.”

“He’s hit you in the face, I don’t think he’s a nice cat.”

“He’s just – he’s still warming up to me!” Martin insists.

“Try to pet me again and I’ll tell Elias you’ve been playing games all day,” Jon says to Tim, wincing as he stretches out his cramped leg.

“Look, how would you take it if you suddenly ended up in a situation with three strangers?” Martin continues.

“How would you take it if you suddenly ended up in a situation where your three subordinates treated you like a cat?” Jon retorted, standing from the armchair with some difficulty (the armchair is an ugly, overstuffed thing that ought to be _burned_ ), and walking back towards Artefact Storage.

“Haven’t you looked up how to properly acclimate a cat?” Tim asks.

“No! I’ve been dealing with – paperwork, and Elias, and –”

The hinges on the door to Artefact Storage are in desperate need of oiling. Conceptually, Jon knew this before he opened the door. In practice, he had _forgotten_ about this before he opened the door.

“Oh no.” This is said in unison by all three men in the room – Jon in resigned defeat, Tim and Martin in horror.

Martin dashes across the room before Jon can fling himself into the warm embrace of, oh, perhaps a painful death via falling down a staircase, which is still better than this situation.

“What, did you leave the door _ajar_?” Tim asks as Martin carries Jon back to the armchair. Tim rises, actually turns his phone off, and goes to lock the door.

“Maybe he’s bored?” Sasha offers from her desk, far removed via stacks of files from the drama of Jon’s near escape, because at least one of Jon’s assistants is a worthwhile employee.

Though considering her compliance in this prank, Jon muses as Martin fully tucks him in under the blanket, Sasha will still be victim to the Post Cat Purge, which will occur the moment he can get to Elias. So will Tim.

“Martin, just keep him in your lap,” Tim says, once he’s abandoned his investigation of the door. “Don’t know who keeps doors ajar, but we can’t cat-proof the place and I don’t want to see what a Leitner will do to a cat.”

“Don’t you dare.” Jon stares up at Martin. Martin frowns at this proposal.

“I don’t think he’d like that?”

“Well, I don’t think he’d like getting his skin turned inside out, or something,” Tim points out. “Just until we can get someone to look at the doors, I guess.”

Martin sighs, and plops down to sit cross-legged in front of Jon and the armchair. “You have a point,” he says.

“He’s small enough, just move him,” Sasha says. “He’s not that wriggly.”

“ _Don’t you dare_.”

Martin flinches slightly at Jon’s words. “I don’t think he’d like that,” he says, looking back at Sasha. “I’ll just – keep an eye on him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i really wanted to have Martin do Polish baby talk, but I speak a bit of Russian, no Polish, and I really figured Martin calling Jon "ochin malinkiy kotehnok" would probably not go down well. considering. y'know. Russia and Poland's history. 
> 
> coming up next: martin is nearly reduced to tears by a cat, and jon finally gets Scritches (TM)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scritches happen. Martin nearly cries, and is very good at reading cat body language.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yall really like cat!jon huh

Martin had wandered off for – not even ten minutes. The kettle takes seven minutes to boil, because the machinery in the kitchen hasn’t been updated since Gertrude was born, and it takes Martin about a minute to add the proper amount of milk and sugar.

Martin had wandered off for less than ten minutes.

And Jon is _gone_. Oh, there’s a distinctly Jon-shaped impression on the cushion of the armchair, but there is no Jon.

“Oh.”

Tim and Sasha had gone out on lunch break, and Martin was certain they’d closed the door to the Archives behind them so there was no chance that Jon escaped, but – but –

Jon was still _missing._

“Oh dear.” Martin puts his tea down, turns in a slow circle. “Jon?”

Nothing.

“Jon? Kici kici kiiii-ciiiii,” Martin calls, turning in circles as he scans the room. Artefact Storage is locked, so their suicidal little cat isn’t down there getting eaten by Leitners, or worse. The door out of the Archives is also shut, so there’s no chance Jon has escaped and is being held hostage by – by, research, or IT, or Rosie.

Desks. Armchair. Hallway towards the Archivist’s office. Break room.

Martin whirls towards the armchair first, takes a step forward, and hears a violent yowl as his foot makes contact with something.

And that something is Jon. Jon, who has… a file folder clutched between his teeth, that is now looking a bit worse for wear, considering Martin nearly stepped on it.

“Jon, that’s not –” Martin makes a grab at the folder, but Jon darts past him and leaps onto the armchair. “Jon, no!”

Jon ignores him with the imperiousness that all cats have, and delicately sets the folder down in front of him.

“Jon, that’s really not –” Martin reaches for the folder, only for Jon to swipe at him. “No! Do not do that!” Martin does his best to glower at the cat.

The cat does not look impressed.

“You can’t eat our files, Jon. I’ll get you some toys, or, or something, but I need that file.”

Judging from what little Martin could read upside down, the file in question was one of the ones Elias said needed “Proper recording equipment” and had hidden in his office.

…Jon had broken into Elias’ office.

Elias had let Jon into his office?

Martin wasn’t sure, but Jon still has a file that – well, Jon definitely should not be reading about somebody being tormented by an army of eyeless ghosts, Martin knows, because he was the unfortunate one who had tried to record that statement.

Martin lunges forward, and manages to yank the file away from Jon and hold it far above Jon’s head. “No, files are not for cats!” he repeats when Jon yowls at him, makes swiping motions at the file. “No,” Martin repeats sternly, taking a step backwards. “No, this goes back into its box in Elias’ office, where it should be, because kitties are not archival assistants and should not be disrupting our filing.”

Jon stops yowling, and fixes Martin with the most unimpressed stare he’s ever had the misfortune of seeing.

Jon’s eyes are mismatched, and Martin had thought that was part of the charm. Like the Australian Shepherds with mottled coats and mismatched eyes. A scrawny cat with grey-streaked fur and mismatched eyes.

Now, it just makes Martin feel like he wanted to cry under the weight of this cat’s displeasure. “No,” he repeats, voice firm, if a bit watery, and turns to put the file on his desk.

Jon sighs, and when Martin turns to see what he’s gotten up to now, he sees Jon perched primly on the edge of Martin’s desk. Jon reaches out and gently puts his paw as high up on Martin’s shoulder as he can reach (not that far, honestly, Martin’s tall and his desk is built for a normal-sized person), and meows apologetically. It is, admittedly, an impressively long meow.

Martin smiles, pretends his eyes aren’t already slightly red, and gingerly reaches out. And though there is reluctance and long-sufferance written into every shred of Jon’s posture, Jon allows Martin to gently stroke the soft fur between Jon’s ears. “I feel like I should thank you,” Martin laughs after a moment, sniffling slightly. “You know, for not trying to – to, to bite my fingers off or something.”

Jon just stares at him, then at the file.

“I – no, you may not – Jon!” Martin sniffs, quickly wipes his nose on his sleeve, and puts the file on top of Sasha’s computer mainframe. “You are a manipulative little kitty.” But Martin reaches out to carefully pet Jon again, and Jon allows it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to RheiaTheiaXarro here on ao3 for providing me with polish that i then probably butchered (you're amazing!)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim is skeptical, and loses at Solitaire. 
> 
> Jon is slightly petty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's up guys i'm legally required to stay at home so yall get two updates in one day because i'm bored as fuck
> 
> also can we appreciate that i titled this "scritches for the archivist" and then did not supply scritches until chapter three
> 
> but good news there's scritches in p much every chapter i've written from hereon out

“I do not believe it,” Tim says firmly, spinning slowly in his swivel chair as he scowls at his game of Solitaire. “He did not.”

“He did!” Martin insists. “He let me pet him!”

“Bullshit,” Tim retorts, stopping his spinning via planting his foot on the edge of his desk. “He did not.”

“Martin looked very sad,” Jon defends, from where he’s sitting in Martin’s desk chair. It is a chair built for a much bigger man. It is also unfairly comfortable, and Jon is trying desperately to resist the urge to curl up in it.

“His fur is really soft,” Martin continues. “Right between his ears. Just –” he makes a tiny little scratching movement with the first two fingers, thumb carefully out of the way and last two fingers bent slightly.

“You’re lying.”

“Unfortunately, he is not,” Jon says, looking down at the file spread out on Martin’s desk. Statement of Elsie Miller, regarding an encounter with a ghost in her flat. Utter nonsense, from the looks of it.

Martin’s little pet had also thoroughly messed up his braid, and Jon couldn’t find his hairbrush.

“Can I pet you again?” Martin asks, putting his tea down and rounding the desk. “Mały koteczku, ty mała kulko sierści.” He’s cooing again, high-pitched baby voice in full effect, and Jon just glowers.

“Get me my hairbrush and I’ll consider it,” Jon says.

“Kici kici kici,” Martin croons, carefully extending a hand.

“He’s not gonna let you,” Tim predicts, watching the event with glee in his eyes.

Jon stares directly at Tim. And carefully extends his head towards Martin.

Martin’s hand makes contact with the top of Jon’s head, and his nails dig in slightly as he gently scratches Jon’s scalp.

“ _Oh my god_ ,” Tim laughs, disbelief written in every fiber of his being. “Oh my god. He does!”

“I told you!” Martin retorts, pouting slightly at Tim before turning back to Jon with a smile that could probably outshine the sun. “Mały koteczku, mały koteczku,” he coos, hand travelling down the back of Jon’s head towards his neck.

“That’s enough,” Jon warns, leaning away from Martin’s hand.

“Aww, are you done?” Martin’s pout returns in full force, but Jon remains firm. “Fine.”

Jon can’t believe he’s playing along with this.

His grandmother would be so disappointed.

Georgie would be cackling madly.

…He’s never going to live this down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like martin is one of those people who is weirdly good at reading animal body language (especially if the animal in question is actually a human)
> 
> polish translations, in order of appearance:  
> Mały koteczku, ty mała kulko sierści -- tiny little kitty, little fluffball  
> Kici kici kici -- kitty kitty kitty  
> Mały koteczku, mały koteczku -- tiny little kitty, tiny little kitty


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scritches Under Duress occur.
> 
> Elias appears.
> 
> Sasha gets the Good Stuff (salami).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one step method to restraining oneself from updating multiple times a day: just fuckin. sleep all day. that's it.

“I have salami,” Sasha announces as she flounces down the stairs, skirt swirling delicately around her ankles and plastic bag in hand. Jon feels faintly jealous that Sasha can wear with such things – the dress code is unfortunately strict, and Jon isn’t quite brave enough to bring it up with Elias yet.

Martin opens his mouth to object.

“Yes, Martin, I know salami’s bad for cats, but just today. Get him happy with us.” Sasha smiles at Jon, pulling out a package of admittedly high-quality salami. Probably. The label doesn’t look gaudy, at least.

Martin shuts his mouth.

“Did you get a collar?” Tim asks, shutting down mahjong and plugging his phone in.

“Was I told to get a collar?” Sasha asks with a grin, as she pulls out –

No.

No, Jon is not wearing that.

Jon is not – this joke is, is overall harmless, but Jon is not going to put on a bloody _collar_.

“C’mere Jon,” Sasha coos, putting the bag down and ripping the tag from the collar with her teeth. It’s plain, thank god, but there is a bell and Jon is not wearing that.

He rolls off the overstuffed armchair with an utter lack of decorum, and races towards the door to Artefact Storage.

“ _No!”_ Martin’s desk is too close, and he makes a grab for Jon.

Jon, in a moment of pure terrified frenzy, manages to vault over the desk, send all of Martin’s work flying, and escape Martin’s grabbing hands.

“Grab him!”

Jon can’t get the door unlocked in time, and Sasha’s legs are longer than his.

Well, literally all of his assistants have longer legs than he, on account of all being taller than him, but Sasha is the one with the bloody _collar_ in hand.

Tim closes in, tall and strong, reaching for the collar of Jon’s sweater.

Jon promptly hits him in the face, ignores the brief thoughts of lawsuits about workplace assault, and runs past Tim towards the door out of the Archives, which is blessedly ajar, though Jon thinks he can see the door opening, somebody stepping through –

And Jon bodily slams into somebody wearing a neatly tailored grey suit, knocking them flat as they step into the Archives proper.

Everything comes to a halt as Elias slowly sits up, shifting Jon in his lap and holding him firmly by his upper arms.

“Elias, I’m so sorry about that, but I’m afraid my assistants have been playing a little prank that has gotten quite out of hand –” Jon begins, but Elias just looks past him.

“I understand your reasoning in getting an Archival cat,” Elias says calmly, getting to his feet without letting go of Jon’s arms, “but I believe this is a bit out of hand.”

Tim is the first to react.

“Sorry, Elias, we’re just trying –”

“To get a collar on him, yes, Tim, I can see that.” Elias shifts his grip so that he’s holding Jon’s elbow.

“You can see me,” Jon says, slightly accusatory. “You don’t think I’m a cat. You are not holding me like you would a cat." 

Elias just gives Jon a stern look out of the corner of his eye, and pointedly does not respond. “Perhaps that can wait for another day,” he says, handing Jon off to Tim, who takes gleeful advantage and buries his hand in Jon’s hair. “When he’s… adjusted.”

Jon promptly bats Tim over the head, and dives back to the armchair when Tim's grip loosens. He loses more than a few strands of hair, but it’s worth it.

“And perhaps some food might be in order,” Elias adds, before vanishing back up the stairs.

Sasha waves the salami in Jon’s direction.

“Put the collar down and we’ll talk,” Jon says grumpily, yanking the blanket towards him.

“See! He likes the blanket!” Martin bursts out.

“Oh good lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tim don't be mean, give jon scritches when he allows you scritches :(
> 
> can elias see through this? absolutely. to be fair, who is going to stand there holding a cat's elbow like "yes this will definitely keep them in place, no way are they going to easily break free"
> 
> also elias is the real villain here for not allowing jon to wear skirts to work


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The collar reappears. 
> 
> Martin has questionable taste in documentaries.
> 
> Jon has an unpleasant thought.
> 
> Day one concludes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for noncon bed sharing, due to one character thinking the other character is a cat.

The clock strikes five.

“Do you think he’ll sleep in the armchair all night?” Sasha asks, stretching with a wide yawn.

“Doubt it,” Tim says, pocketing his phone. Jon’s pretty certain Tim spent that last half hour on Tinder. “I bet we’ll come back and he’ll be yelling from Martin’s desk chair. Or sitting on top of some of the creepy files from the Archivist’s office.”

“So, what, we just lock him in the break room? Pull the chair in there?” Sasha suggests.

Martin shifts nervously, and Jon turns a piercing stare on him. “What are you planning?” Jon asks warily, narrowing his eyes.

“I thought I might take him home tonight,” Martin says. “Just – don’t want to leave him alone so soon, you know? We don’t have a litter box yet.”

“And you’d better not get one, as I am still perfectly capable of using the men’s room.”

“Do _you_ have a litter box?” Tim asks, more than a bit incredulous.

“I – no, I don’t, but there’s a patch of grass near my apartment. I could get the collar on and take him out there.”

Sasha tosses the collar to Martin. “Good luck,” she says cheerfully.

Martin sighs, and turns on Jon.

“No.” Jon says flatly. “Don’t you dare.”

And then Jon’s being yanked unceremoniously into a pair of very strong arms that skillfully trap both arms and legs, because Tim is a horrible person who Jon will take great pleasure in getting fired.

“Got him,” Tim says cheerfully. “Come on, Martin, get the collar on while he’s stuck.”

“Tim, I understand we were in Research together, but this is _not acceptable_ ,” Jon splutters, doing his best to flail as Martin approaches and failing miserably.

“It’s okay darling,” Martin coos, “just a collar. Not even a flea collar, because you’re a nice little kitty who doesn’t have flees.”

“What, no Polish?” Tim teases, and Martin flushes under his freckles.

And then Martin unbuckles the collar.

“ _No –!”_

Martin buckles the collar around Jon’s neck, and Jon chokes, because this is a collar meant for a cat, not a grown man. Is this a coup? A spectacularly humiliating coup?

“Oh no, oh no,” Martin frets, removing the collar fast enough that his nails leave scratches on Jon’s neck. “Oh dear, that was –” he shrugs apologetically, quickly loosening it and carefully measuring it against Jon’s neck before fastening it again, despite the fact that Jon is presently coughing up a lung since he was just _garroted_ by a _cat collar_. A cat collar with a _bell._

“I will tell Elias about that,” Jon vows, once his throat clears.

“Here, Tim, pass him over to me –” Martin says, holding his arms out.

“Be sure to get all four legs, or he’ll hit you,” Tim warns, carefully shuffling Jon into Martin’s arms.

And unfortunately, Martin is stronger than he looks – as exemplified by the fact that he’s been picking Jon up all day – and is strong enough to keep Jon trapped.

“See you tomorrow, you grumpy little thing,” Tim says cheerfully, scratching under Jon’s chin, which felt significantly stranger than scratching Jon’s scalp.

Jon just glowers at Tim.

“He’s really expressive, isn’t he? Kinda creepy eyes, though.” Tim’s hand moves, scratching carefully up the side of Jon’s head, paying specific attention to the area behind Jon’s ears, before finally ending up at the crown of Jon’s head.

“I think they’re cute,” Martin defends, shifting Jon slightly.

“Yeah, yeah.” Tim grins at Martin. “See you tomorrow.”

Sasha also ambles over, having finished tidying her desk, because though she has shown herself to be an awful person, she is at least dedicated to her work.

“Is this more humiliation?” Jon asked tiredly.

“Move over, Tim, I want a turn when he can’t bite me,” Sasha orders, and Tim obediently moves his hand.

Sasha goes directly for the nape of Jon’s neck.

Jon whips his head around so sharply the _crack_ could probably be heard in Elias’ office, but he succeeds in headbutting her hand away.

“You two are mean,” Martin declares, taking a step back.

“And how many times have you gotten to pet him today?” Sasha asked with a pout. Martin, thankfully, did not waver.

“You’re still mean.”

Sasha’s pout slips away and she just laughs. “Yeah, I know. See you two tomorrow.”

//

After a rather… interesting ride back to Martin’s flat, Jon found himself deposited into yet another graceless sprawl, this time on Martin’s beaten up and rather shabby couch.

“You may think I am a cat but I do not have the grace of one,” Jon snaps, righting himself and tugging his sweater back into place.

“You _are_ chatty,” Martin says, a bit of delight in his voice, as he goes back to the door and locks it. “Alright. What do you need to eat, hm?”

Jon sighs, running a hand over his hair. His braid is well and truly beyond saving now, thanks to the shenanigans of three assistants who shall remain nameless.

“I’d greatly prefer something that did not come out of a box,” Jon snarks, tugging the hairtie from the end of his braid and carefully running his fingers through his hair. “And if you try to feed me kibble, Martin, I will burn this flat down.”

Martin absently clicks his tongue as he gathers up a battered old laptop that looks to be at least five years old, and sits carefully on the opposite end of the couch from Jon. As the ancient fan begins whirring and the computer slowly comes to life, Martin spares Jon a hopeful glance.

Jon resolutely ignores it, focusing instead on trying to tame the mess that Martin’s scratching had made of his scalp.

“Aww,” Martin murmurs, but he turns his gaze away from Jon.

“I – really, Martin, this is getting absurd,” Jon tries. “I know I haven’t been the most – _patient_ with you, specifically, but if you wanted to complain you could have brought it to me directly, or taken it up with Elias. This kind of – of – ridiculousness – truly, we are alone in your apartment, I’m relatively certain this counts as workplace harassment! Or kidnapping. For god’s sake, Martin –”

Martin carefully reaches over without taking his eyes from the computer screen, aiming for the top of Jon’s head.

Jon just sighs, and buries his face in his hands in utter despair as Martin’s fingers bury themselves in Jon’s hair.

“You could at least let me borrow a comb,” Jon mutters, ignoring Martin’s absentminded cooing. “And I sincerely hope that whatever you make is edible, or I will be ransacking your kitchen tonight.”

After several moments, Martin withdraws his hand and stands. “Alright, Jon,” he says, a disgusting amount of cheer in his tone. “I have most of the ingredients for this one, though I’m afraid you’ll have to accept frozen chicken instead of fresh.”

“I hope you don’t expect me to eat a piece of chicken straight from the freezer,” Jon drawls, looking up at Martin.

“Come on, I’ll let you on the counter so you can watch,” Martin coaxes, walking backwards into his kitchen. It’s a rather treacherous decision, all things considered, but the flat is small enough that Martin doesn’t trip and die horribly.

Unfortunately.

With a sigh, Jon heaves himself off the couch, hairtie still in hand as he tries to tame his hair. Glancing at the recipe on Martin’s computer, it looks – incredibly bland, but not horrific. Meat. Unseasoned. 

Perhaps Jon could steal some spices.

"Think you could probably do with some vegetables, too," Martin says absently. "Don't want you getting scurvy, or something. Can cats even get scurvy?" 

Jon doesn't dignify that with a response.

(He does in stealing a mostly empty bottle of paprika, though. He dumps half the remainder in while staring directly at Martin. Martin doesn’t seem to notice, save a bit of fretting later on about the food turning out a different color than depicted on the website.)

//

Martin has questionable taste in documentaries. Which is to say, Jon has just spent the past hour subjected to the audio of a documentary on desert spiders, because his choices were covering his eyes or covering his ears, and the visual would give him worse nightmares. 

But finally, thankfully, Martin yawns. It is abrupt and makes Jon jump, wide enough that Martin's jaw creaks, but it signals the end of the documentary-fueled torture. Because Martin decides not to fall asleep on the couch, and instead turns the documentary off, glances over at Jon. Jon, who has spent the past hour curled into the arm of the couch with his face buried in his knees.

“Oh no, do spiders scare you?” Martin makes a sympathetic face. “Must’ve come into contact with a big one, huh? They’re an important part of the ecosystem, though. Now come on, Jon, it’s bedtime for both of us. Think I’ll be getting to work early, yeah? Don’t want to put you through a crowded train ride again.”

“Oh no. Please tell me you aren’t planning what I think you’re planning.”

Martin stands, stretches. The couch has horrible back support, Jon has discovered over the course of the evening, but he can’t find it in himself to be sympathetic when Martin’s back cracks.

And then. And then. Martin advances quickly on Jon, and scoops him up before Jon can dive over the back of the couch and escape.

“ _Don’t you dare!_ ” Jon shrieks, flailing without a shred of dignity and not caring in the slightest.

“I’m not going to leave you to sleep out here, Jon,” Martin says as he walks towards a door that’s slightly ajar. “It’s not comfortable, and it gets cold. Windows, you know?” He bumps the door open with his hip (or rather, with Jon’s knee, but apparently Martin… does not see fit to comment), and turns on the light by backing strategically against the wall and pushing the lightswitch on. Martin’s room is rather messy, with a half-folded laundry basket sitting in front of a shabby looking dresser, an unmade bed piled with blankets, and a stack of beaten up notebooks on the bedside table.

“At least tell me you have a spare toothbrush,” Jon says, resigned as Martin deposits him on the unmade bed. Jon kicks off his shoes, and tries his best to come to terms with the fact that he will probably be sleeping in Martin’s bed.

“I’ll be right back,” Martin says, tousling Jon’s hair and picking up a pair of joggers and an old shirt. “Don’t hog the blankets, alright?”

Jon doesn’t bother sitting up until Martin’s left and closed the bedroom door behind him.

There is, of course, the possibility that this is not a joke. That this is what the Leitner has done. It has not turned him into a cat, not physically, it has just created a very thorough… illusion? Delusion? Jon’s not sure. But everybody he passed in the Institute failed to notice him, just as one would fail to notice a small cat passing by. Or a cat breaking into their boss’ office. Everyone save Elias, of course, who decided to, what, play along?

…That is a very unpleasant thought, which Jon does his best to disregard immediately. But it lasts, as he strips down to his boxers and steals one of Martin’s cleaner shirts (he’ll be damned if he sleeps mostly naked next to Martin. If this is a joke, then this is the least Martin can provide), and Martin fails to even _notice_ the clothes neatly folded up next to the laundry basket.

Martin is not that good a liar. He stutters and turns red – Jon knows this from the time Martin tried to sneak a dog into the Archives. (It was an admittedly cute animal, but. No. Dogs are too rambunctious.)

“Goodnight, ty mała kulko sierści,” Martin says softly, before turning off the light and joining Jon in bed.

Jon just huffs, and scoots as far towards the wall as he possibly can. And squeaks slightly when Martin pulls the covers over them both, as Martin apparently has a weighted blanket that Jon was _not_ prepared for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit 06/26 bc im forgetful as hell -- do not give cats vegetables. do not give a number of animals vegetables (ferrets, for example). cats are carnivores and can't digest plants. jon is getting vegetables bc, as far as im aware, humans can't subsist purely off of meat. the way the assistants treat jon while they think he's a cat is absolutely not how you should treat a cat, even beyond the food he's given.
> 
> i'm legitimately sorry for not thinking to add this note from the beginning, and i'm sorry for hurting or anyone with this depiction.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day Two. 
> 
> Cuddles occur.
> 
> Tim is productive.
> 
> Jon gets pad thai.
> 
> Martin is concerned about Jon's diet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if it's posting at midnight it's not posting the same day
> 
> also, just wanted to clarify something -- chapters 1-6 all cover the same day; chapter 1 occurs early in the morning, and it culminates in chapter 6, when martin takes jon home and they go to bed. 
> 
> also shoutout to the two british people who answered my deodorant vs antiperspirant question -- yall are great

Jon wakes to the shrieking of a phone alarm, surprisingly early in the morning for how late Martin usually arrives.

He also awakes surprisingly warm, with a very large presence pressed against his back, thick arm wrapped securely around his waist, facing a wall with paint that is thoroughly chipped and peeling.

Jon tries in vain to wriggle out from Martin’s arms, flailing and squirming, half to turn off the alarm and half to get out of the bed he’s been forced to share with his _assistant_ who probably truly thinks he’s a _cat_ , but only succeeds in Martin grumbling in his sleep and tightening his arm.

So Jon carefully turns to face Martin (God, they’re uncomfortably close, aren’t they?) and lightly hits Martin over the head.

Martin awakes with a gasp, blinking the sleep from his eyes, and frowns at Jon. He mumbles something in Polish that sounds vaguely plaintive – what Jon wouldn’t give for a Polish to English dictionary, and also for written Polish to make enough sense that he could look words up – and moves his arm from Jon’s waist to Jon’s head, where he scratches lightly at the nape of Jon’s neck.

“I’d tell you not to do that, but I don’t think it would do much,” Jon says, resignation clear in his voice.

Martin frowns, but rolls over to turn the alarm off. And then apparently preemptively turn off a dozen more alarms, which explains why Martin is usually walking into the archives a few minutes past eight. “Are you hungry, Jon?” Martin asks, yawning widely and returning his hand to Jon’s hair.

“I’d prefer a toothbrush, hairbrush, and deodorant,” Jon says, doing his best to sit up and not exactly succeeding.

Martin yawns again, finally sitting up. He doesn’t removing his hand from Jon’s neck though, continuing with the gentle scratching.

At least he has short nails. Jon would be even less pleased if Martin’s attentions resulted in exfoliation of his neck.

It takes an annoyingly long time, but Martin finally yawns again, removes his hand from Jon’s neck, and climbs out of bed.

“I’d also greatly like a shower,” Jon says, stretching and shivering slightly at the sudden removal of warmth. “But I believe that would perhaps stretch this illusion a bit far.”

Didn’t the Archives have showers? Jon thinks so, thinks that Gertrude had forced their installation at some point, for reasons Jon completely cannot understand. Hopefully they were more… contemporary than the appliances in the breakroom.

“Come on, baby,” Martin says, after pocketing his phone and quite rudely picking Jon up. “Breakfast, and then we’ll head to the Archives. Don’t want to stick you on a crowded commute again.”

“I greatly appreciate that,” Jon says, ignoring the strain in his hip where Martin has failed to sufficiently hold both legs and now Jon’s left leg is dangling uncomfortably, and said leg hits the doorframe with a solid _thunk_ as Martin tries to navigate out of the bedroom.

“Oh no,” Martin coos, gently setting Jon down on the kitchen table. “Oh darling, are you alright?”

Jon stares Martin directly in the eye, and raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

“I’m sorry, Jon. Here, once we get to the Archives, I’ll give you some of the salami,” Martin promises, before turning to his refrigerator. He pulls out the remainder of Jon’s food from last night, and the remainder of the boxed lasagna he’d made for himself.

“That is disgusting, by the way,” Jon says as Martin pops the ‘cat food’ into the microwave and puts the kettle on for tea. “Though I don’t suppose you’ll give me tea, will you?”

“No tea for kitties, I’m afraid,” Martin says, taking Jon’s food from the microwave and setting it on the table next to him.

“Can you actually understand me, or are you just guessing from context?” Jon asks, gingerly picking up a piece of chicken with his fingers, because apparently cats are not provided with cutlery.

“Caffeine is probably bad for you, and I know sugar is,” Martin says, covering the lasagna and putting it in the microwave.

“According to most studies, refined sugar is bad for literally everyone,” Jon says, carefully munching on a vegetable that Martin had cooked too long. Unsurprisingly, it tasted like paprika and nothing else. Perhaps Jon could escape today and get some of his own spices from his apartment.

“Nice kitties get nice food,” Martin continues, taking the kettle from the stove when it begins to shriek and pulling down a surprisingly plain mug.

“Are you saying that if I hit Tim too many times you’ll force kibble on me?” Jon asks warily, freezing with a piece of chicken in hand.

Martin turns from his tea preparation, and frowns at Jon. “Is it not good the next day?” he asks, and Jon gets the distinct impression that had he not been holding a mug of tea, Martin would be wringing his hands.

“I’m afraid the mention of you withholding any form of vaguely decent food has put a terror in me that ruined my appetite,” Jon deadpans, eating the chicken in one bite with a lack of manners that would appall his grandmother.

Martin puts his tea down with a sigh of relief that Jon firmly believes is far too dramatic for the circumstances, and takes his lasagna out of the microwave when it begins to pop and sizzle.

“That’s going to be cold in the center,” Jon predicts.

Martin grimaces after two bites, and Jon feels rather vindicated.

But Martin still struggles through the rest of the unevenly heated lasagna that had been disgusting on the first day, and washes it down by chugging the tea.

Green tea, surprisingly. With a hint of floral addition. Odd, considering all the tea in the Archives was Earl Grey, and Martin never complained.

But now Martin stared at Jon as Jon carefully ate the remainder of his food, to a degree that Jon’s movement slowed to a stop because this was truly getting uncomfortable.

“Don’t you have to get ready for work?” Jon asked pointedly, looking at the clock on Martin’s microwave. It was still two hours before work started, but still.

Martin did not take the hint, instead reaching out to gently pet the top of Jon’s head. “Are you not hungry, Jon?” he asks, a bit of worry in his face. “I guess we’ll take the rest of it to work today, so you’ll have more than processed meat to eat.”

Jon sighs, and delicately shoves the container of food away. Martin, unfortunately, had a point.

Which was utterly negated by the fact that Jon had no intention of eating this for lunch, or subsisting purely on cured sausage meat, but still. He didn’t want scurvy.

Martin sighs, and takes the container. “Alright,” he says, standing and snapping the lid back on. “Time to get ready, and then we’ll go.”

Jon just sits on the table, watching with narrowed eyes as Martin vanishes into the bedroom.

At least Martin hasn’t changed in front of him.

…But truly, Jon would shortly be in desperate need of a change of clothes, and that would be an interesting dilemma to solve.

//

It’s early, especially for Martin – he and Jon and the janitorial staff are the only ones in the Institute, and it’s, well. A bit spooky, if Martin’s being honest. But he turns on the lights before depositing Jon in the armchair.

Jon is not the most graceful cat, Martin has discovered over the past day and a half. He’s more likely to collapse when put down, fall over, faceplant into the armchair and struggle to right himself. It’s a bit cute, especially when Jon just. Gives up. Stays in the uncoordinated sprawl for some time, just giving the room an exasperated look with his mismatched eyes.

“I know the old Archivist would often come in early,” Martin says, largely to fill the silence with some kind of noise as he takes off his coat and scarf and hat, neatly hanging them up, “but I honestly don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing at this time of day. I mean, for goodness’ sake, the sun isn’t even up yet.” He laughs then, self-deprecating, wipes preemptively at his eyes where he knows stressed tears will soon gather. “I mean, I don’t exactly know what I’m supposed to be doing during the day, either.”

Martin turns from the coat rack, mouth open to continue venting to Jon, and… Jon is gone.

“Oh no. Not again,” Martin frets, glancing around the room. “Jon?” He moves quickly through the room, glancing under desks, dropping to his hands and knees to check under the armchair. “Jon? Where’d you go?”

Well, Jon certainly hadn’t gotten into Elias’ office, since the door out of the Archives was still firmly shut.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a grey-streaked blur leap onto his desk.

File folder in mouth.

“Did you break into the Archivist’s office again?” Martin asks, darting towards his desk where Jon has deposited the file and is carefully opening it with his teeth. “Jon!”

Jon looks up, gives Martin a surprisingly pointed look – goodness, this cat is expressive – and places his paw firmly on the first page.

It’s an older file, at least fifty years old and possibly older, but in good condition. Save the cat practically sitting on it, of course. Thank goodness Jon doesn’t have muddy paws.

Martin grabs Jon, ignores the yowl, and tries to carry Jon back to the armchair.

Jon, however, clings stubbornly to Martin when he tries to set Jon down, yowls, and Martin just sighs. “Do you want cuddles today? Alright. I guess I’ll look at your toy for a bit. File. How did you get past that door? Did I leave it ajar?”

Despite the... odd method of delivery, Martin sits down, situates Jon in his lap, and idly rests his hand between Jon’s shoulderblades as he looks over the file.

Martin reads over the statement once, twice, three times. It’s one of the more… unnerving ones. He’ll try to record it, but Martin is willing to be that it won’t work.

But Jon’s weight is comforting in Martin’s lap, and he carefully wraps his arms around Jon as he starts up the recording equipment.

The statements that refuse to record digitally are always a bit… unnerving. And a little bit of comfort is always nice.

//

“Oh my god. I don’t believe it.” Tim laughs incredulously as he hangs up his coat, staring at Martin, who presently has Jon in his lap.

“It isn’t exactly my idea of a good time either,” Jon snaps, “but I am quite bored and could not get a look at this file any other way.”

“He’s actually – is he _cuddling_ with you?”

“Yes,” Martin says, a bit defensively, arms tightening around Jon. Jon isn’t quite sure what this looks like to the rest of them. Is he curled up? Or do they see him more accurately, sitting in Martin’s lap?

Either way, should this illusion/delusion ever break, he will never live this down.

…Dear god, he sincerely hopes this will break.

“We’ve been here a while, and I think he’s cold,” Martin continues, absently petting Jon’s chest.

Jon looks straight ahead, a dead expression in his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, you keep your cat and your cat’s favoritism,” Tim says with a playful pout, ambling over to his desk and plugging his phone in as his computer slowly turns on. “And your cat’s creepy, mismatched eyes.”

Wait.

What?

Jon throws his head backwards, slamming it into Martin’s chin, and leaps from Martin’s lap as Martin recoils in pain.

Distantly, Jon takes note of the mad cackle from Tim, but he’s a bit busy dashing down the hallway at full speed and barreling into the men’s room. He skids to a stop in front of the sink, avoids spectacularly wiping out by virtue of grabbing onto the rim of the sink, and stares into the mirror.

His eyes are different colors now. His left eye has turned from its plain brown to a deep green.

…Jon decides to blame this on the Leitner and its bizarre effects, and does not resist when the door bangs open behind him and Tim scoops him up with a degree of glee that truly ought to worry Jon.

“Little bastard baby boy,” Tim coos as he opens the door, careful not to hit Jon on the doorframe, which Jon is inordinately pleased with. “Bastard man who gave Martin a split lip.”

Alright, Jon admittedly feels a bit bad about that. But it’s not like he can exactly apologize for doing such, now can he?

He still tries though, once Tim carries him back into the office area.

“I admit that that was immature of me,” Jon says, genuinely sincere as he saw Martin hold a tea towel to his split lip, “and I apologize for hitting you. My only defense is that I do not believe you would have let me go if I started demanding you do such, as you seem to only hear undignified yowling.”

And then Tim sits down with Jon in his lap, still cooing insults, and Jon decides that giving up on his dignity for the next few hours is inevitable.

//

Sasha is utterly unrepentant as she too cackles at Martin’s predicament, putting away her own coat. How exactly she manages to wear skirts out in the cold, Martin’s not sure, but he’s impressed nonetheless.

Irritated at her laughter, but impressed.

“How is his skull strong enough to hit you that hard?” Sasha asks once the giggles have subsided and she’s sat down at her desk, putting her absurdly large cup of takeout coffee down safely out of the way.

“I don’t know, but he did,” Martin says, carefully prodding at his lip to ensure the scab hasn’t split again.

“He took off for the _men’s room_ , of all things, sitting up on the edge of the sink,” Tim adds, scratching Jon between the ears and ignoring Jon’s dead-eyed stare. “Little weirdo.”

“Don’t call him that,” Martin protests. “He’s a cute little fluffball.”

“Is _that_ what you’ve been calling him?” Tim asks delightedly, fingers stilling in Jon’s fur. “Really? You’re speaking fluent Polish to call him cute?”

“…I also call him very tiny,” Martin mumbles, turning to his computer in a vain attempt to hide his blush. It doesn’t quite work. Nor does Martin’s attempt to hide behind his mug of tea – brewed a bit too strongly, though in Martin’s defense, he made it shortly after he finished attempting to record the statement, and it was still quite early.

Tim laughs, typing one-handed at whatever document he’s working on at the moment.

Jon then decides to flail violently and roll off of Tim’s lap, making a mad dash for the armchair, where he takes a flying leap and buries himself under the blankets. Martin feels a tad bit vindicated.

“Hey, Martin,” Tim says after a moment. “What’s the file you got there?”

“Oh, it’s, ah, one of the odd statements.”

“Won’t record?”

Martin shakes his head. “No. I thought I’d bring it up to Elias, once I’ve typed up the follow-up. It’s a bit messy.”

“Old?”

“Mhm.” Martin anxiously taps at the keyboard, not heavy enough to actually _type_ , but enough to make noise.

“Where’d you get it?” Sasha asks.

Martin’s blush deepens, and Sasha’s eyebrows raise. It’s not exactly like they’d believe him, now is it? _Oh, Jon broke into the Archivist’s old office, riffled through the files, and managed to pick out one of the disturbing ones._

“Well? Did you break into Elias’ office?” Sasha asks. 

“ _Please_ tell me you broke into Elias’ office,” Tim says, leaning forwards with a grin.

“I – I did not!”

“Did he leave it for us to look at, then?” Sasha asks.

“No, no, he –” Martin sighs as Tim gets a gleam in his eye that means he’ll have to tell them where he got it. He should have taken that out. “…Jon stole it from the Archivist’s office.”

Tim’s eyebrows shot up. “Do we have a little librarian cat?” he asks, looking over to where Jon is laying curled up in the armchair, head pillowed on one of the armrests in a way that looks rather uncomfortable and makes Martin’s neck twinge in sympathy. “Martin. Martin, please. Tell me. Is this the first time he’s done this?”

Martin does his best to remain silent, returning to typing the research notes.

“Martin, please, you can’t leave us in suspense!”

“…no.”

“No, he’s never done this before? Or no, this isn’t the first time?” Tim stands, ready to go lurk over Martin’s shoulder until Martin gives up the information.

“No, it’s not the first time he’s done this,” Martin admits.

Tim laughs incredulously. “Seriously?”

“He grabbed the one yesterday – the one about the ghosts?”

Tim laughs again. “That is the best thing I’ve heard all day,” he announces.

“Tim, it’s half eight in the morning,” Sasha points out.

“I stand by my statement. We have a librarian cat!”

“I think he’d be an archivist cat,” Martin mumbles to his computer.

“Even better!”

//

“Jon,” Martin says, voice sing-song, after Tim and Sasha have vacated the Archives to go get takeaway. “Lunch time.”

“No.” Jon burrows deeper into the chair, pulling the blanket up until only his eyes are visible.

“Jon,” Martin coos, voice closer.

“No.” But Jon sighs, and resigns himself to what’s about to happen.

And indeed, Martin’s hands descend and scoop Jon up, blanket and all. “Lunchtime,” Martin repeats, bussing a small kiss against the top of Jon’s head.

“I preferred it when you were speaking Polish,” Jon says as Martin carefully unwraps the blanket from Jon and leaves it in the armchair.

“Come on, I set out some water for you.”

“This will end badly,” Jon predicts as Martin carts him into the breakroom.

Two dishes are carefully set atop a tea towel on the floor – the reheated remnants of last night’s dinner, and a small bowl of water.

“Sasha brought the water bowl,” Martin says as he deposits Jon in front of the dishes.

Jon stares at him. “Surely you don’t intend for me to drink out of that.”

Martin frowns. “What’s wrong? The bowl isn’t too small for your head to fit in.”

“It _absolutely is_ , Martin.” Jon resists the childish urge to kick the bowl over, as that will ruin the only food he has access to, however disgusting it may be. (Paprika is a perfectly acceptable spice. Something that has been microwaved twice and tastes purely of paprika is not acceptable.)

“Come on,” Martin coaxes, sitting down carefully next to the dishes. “Are you scared?”

“It’s a bloody tea towel, Martin,” Jon retorts.

“It’s just a tea towel,” Martin assures, petting the tea towel to – what, to prove its harmlessness?

“I am aware of that, Martin,” Jon says dryly.

“It’s okay,” Martin promises, dipping his fingers into the water bowl and holding them out to Jon. “See? Just water.”

“Good lord.”

“I’m not giving you milk, Jon, we gave you salami yesterday, and too many treats will be bad for you,” Martin points out.

“You’d best not try to feed me actual cat treats,” Jon warns.

Martin reaches out with his wet fingers, shoving them into Jon’s face. “It’s just water,” he repeats. “See?”

Jon looks at Martin. Looks at the water bowl. And stands up and walks away.

//

“He wouldn’t eat,” Martin says to Tim, a bit fretfully, as Tim slowly spins in his chair while eating pad thai.

“Maybe he’s a snobby cat, and it’s not presented well enough,” Tim suggests. “We could bring in a pretty bowl tomorrow. Besides, missing one meal probably won’t hurt him.”

“But you felt his ribs! And there’s no fat on his tummy, like most cats have.” Martin glances over at where Jon is sprawled in the armchair, blanket pulled up to his eyes.

Tim shrugs, stabbing at a stray scallion with his chopsticks. “Maybe he wants something else. Did it turn out right? It’s pretty red, for chicken. Smells like paprika.”

Martin frowns. “I didn’t notice that,” he murmurs. “Maybe I put some in by accident?”

“How do you put paprika in by accident? Got cat food confused with goulash?”

“That’s Hungarian, Tim, and you know it,” Martin says on reflex, and Tim just laughs.

“Here boy,” Tim says, singsong, picking up a piece of chicken and waving it at Jon.

“You’ll drop that!” Martin protests.

“Come on Jon, come eat some nice Thai food that has more spices than paprika.”

And Jon wriggles out from under the blanket, pads over to Tim with what one could argue was a relieved look on his face, and jumps up into Tim’s lap to grab the piece of chicken with his paws.

“Oh my god.” Tim looks delighted as Jon delicately eats the chicken, leaning against Tim’s chest for stability, and neatly licks his paws clean. “He likes human food! He eats with his paws!”

“I don’t think that’s good for him,” Martin says, frowning.

“Hey, you’re the one who says he needs food,” Tim points out, picking out another piece of chicken and holding it out to Jon.

…Martin can’t argue with that, and Jon’s eating style is admittedly adorable. As is his pout when Tim stops to take a bite of noodles.

“Should’ve gotten him some when we went out,” Sasha says with a laugh as Jon primly takes another piece of chicken from Tim’s chopsticks.

“Hey, he’s not putting his mouth on my chopsticks, I don’t care,” Tim says. “We all know were that mouth’s been.”

Jon freezes in licking his paws, and promptly hits Tim in the face, jumping off Tim’s lap with a disgruntled manner.

“Rude!”

Martin bites back a laugh. “I think you offended him.”

“Fussy little archivist cat,” Tim grumbles, wiping a bit of sauce from his cheek where Jon had hit him and turning back to his food.

Jon leaps up onto the armchair, and calmly finishes cleaning his paws.

//

Jon had left an overnight bag in his office.

_He’d left an overnight bag in his office_.

Jon feels like crying with relief as he fishes out hairbrush, toothbrush, fresh set of clothes, everything he’d need to freshen up and feel vaguely human again, regardless of his assistants’ collective delusion.

And he’d been right – Gertrude _had_ insisted on installing showers in the Archives, deep enough in the Archives for the water not to be audible from the main area. Also far enough away that any drain clogging and shower flooding wouldn’t result in damage to the files, but that was slightly lower on Jon’s list of mental priorities.

Of course, the entire thing is slightly dusty, and a bottle of 3-in-1 bodywash/shampoo/conditioner sits in one corner that offends Jon with its mere presence, but that is neither here nor there. The important thing is there is a _shower_ , regardless of why Gertrude had seen fit to insist on its installation.

Jon would clean up. Then he would go back to his office and try and figure out a way to get his assistants to do some kind of productive work today, cat delusion notwithstanding.

//

Jon may have been overly optimistic. Oh, he showered and freshened up just fine, but his office door was closed, which normally would be no issue, if Tim hadn’t decided to amble down the hallway and catch sight of Jon opening said door.

Jon barely heard Tim’s footsteps before he was being yanked off his feet, and his office door was being kicked shut again.

“Hey!” Jon yelps, in part about his sudden airborne state and in part about the scuffmark Tim left on the door. “Are you going to clean that off?”

“Martin,” Tim calls, shifting Jon’s weight until Jon is being carried like – well, like a cat. Slung across Tim’s arms face down, looking down at the old carpet as Tim carts him along. “Found Jon.”

Jon was beginning to have a great deal of sympathy for the Admiral.

“Where was he?” Martin asks, probably looking up once Tim appeared within eyesight. Jon wasn’t sure. Seeing the present state of things was not worth the crick in the neck. Not unless something interesting seemed to be happening.

“Trying to get into the Archivist’s office.” Tim plops Jon down in the armchair, where Jon promptly rights himself and sits up to get a better view of general happenings. “He was trying to open the door. Also he got wet somehow.”

Martin had not looked up from his work; he had turned from where he was depositing a cup of tea on Tim’s desk, and his face had an admittedly familiar expression of worry on it.

As much as Jon hates to admit it, he _is_ beginning to miss Martin’s tea.

“Maybe he’s just bored,” Sasha offers. She didn’t pull out one of her earbuds – Jon is beginning to suspect that she rarely has music playing, she’s simply using them as an excuse to ignore people. Which is a good idea altogether, and one he might steal. Provided he figures out how to end this whole ridiculousness. “We don’t have any toys, after all.”

“So he goes and takes a bath in a sink?” Tim scoffs. “Breaking and entering, I can see, but he is _wet_. Doesn’t smell like wet cat, though.”

“If you get me cat toys, I swear –” Jon begins threateningly, but then Tim’s leaning in closer. “Don’t sniff me!”

Too late.

“This cat got into something that smells like cinnamon and bergamot,” Tim declares.

“Yes, that would be my shampoo and hair oil, respectively, because my hair is a disaster without both,” Jon snaps. “And your collective efforts have turned it into more of a disaster than I’ve had in years!”

“Do you think he’ll like the quiet ones?” Martin says, drawing the conversation back to cat toys. Unfortunately. “I think bells might be too distracting.”

“Worth a shot,” Tim says with a shrug, ambling back to his desk and sprawling in his chair. “Apart from the delivery by our local Archival cat, as enabled by Martin’s inability to properly close doors –”

Martin blushes all the way up to his hairline.

“—do we actually have a list of things to do today?”

“Statement of Pyotr Ivanovich, statement number five-eight-nine-zero-three,” Jon says. It’s one of the historic files. One with follow-up that will be completely impossible to verify.

…it’s possible that Jon is feeling a bit petty right now.

//

“Are you going to take him all weekend?” Sasha asks, once Martin wrangles Jon into his arms to prevent a feline jailbreak.

Martin frowns down at Jon. “I don’t see why I can’t,” he says. Jon’s hanging limply in Martin’s arms, staring blankly ahead. "I thought I'd stay another hour. Wait for rush hour to die down." 

“Taking a cat on a crowded train sounds like a bad idea,” Tim agrees, gently flicking the bell on Jon’s collar. Jon’s expression turns from resigned to irritated as he glares balefully at Tim. Tim just grins, stooping slightly to be on the same level as Jon. “Irritated little boy, aren’t you?” he says cheerfully.

Jon lets out a tired sounding _meow_ , and drops his head further.

“Aww, is Tim bullying you?” Sasha asks, reaching over and _finally_ getting to scratch between Jon’s ears. “His fur _is_ soft!” she says, eyebrows shooting up in surprise.

“Told you,” Martin says, expression briefly matching that of the cat presently giving up on life in his arms.

“Does he actually smell like cinnamon?” Sasha asks, leaning forwards. Jon lets out a rather pathetic sound, and Martin leans backwards.

“He does,” Tim says, grabbing the back of Sasha’s coat and pulling her away. “But anyway. Guess you’re not up for drinks, then?” Tim asks cheerfully, raising his eyebrows. “Considering your new baby.”

Martin splutters, face flushing, and Tim just laughs.

“Next week, maybe,” Tim says, turning on his heel and heading up the Archives stairs. “See you next week, Martin. Jon.”

Jon flicks his tail, but doesn’t move as Sasha scratches between his ears one last time before following Tim up the stairs.

The door thuds shut.

“Well now,” Martin says, shifting to hold Jon under his front legs so he could stare Jon in the eye. “What do you want to do for the next hour?”

//

During the next hour, Jon discovered what Martin did in his spare time, when he wasn’t watching spider documentaries. Martin wrote in a battered green notebook that he’d buried at the bottom of his bag, along with a collection of relatively nice pens.

Of course, today Martin saw fit to do so with Jon tucked neatly into his lap, occasionally reaching down to pet Jon. Which Martin surely saw as a grey-streaked cat curled up in a neat ball, Jon saw as being precariously balanced in Martin’s lap, gripping the armrests so as to avoid an unpleasant tumble and resulting concussion from slamming his head into Martin’s desk.

He preferred the godforsaken armchair.

“Any rhymes for lost?” Martin murmurs absently, hand coming to drift onto Jon’s hair. “Thematically speaking, I suppose. There are lots of rhymes for lost, aren’t there?” He laughs slightly, digging his nails in and finding a knot in Jon’s hair that had developed, shockingly, from the constant scratching. “Oh no,” Martin says with a worried frown. He sticks his pen behind his ear, accidentally leaving a streak of ink across his forehead due to general negligence in capping said pen, and turns his attention fully to Jon’s hair. “Here now, baby,” Martin whispers, carefully digging his fingers into the knot, and Jon winces from reflex.

His hair is long, has been for some time, and his grandmother was never gentle with detangling it. Though nor did she ever take scissors to it, which Jon was grateful for.

Martin, however, is careful and gentle, coaxing the snarl out of Jon’s hair until it lays flat, and then combing his hands through Jon’s hair to ensure there weren’t any other’s hiding.

“Guess you’ve got finer hair, huh?” Martin asks, carefully extricating his hands, and returning one to lay on the top of Jon’s head. “Like some dogs, always getting matted lumps behind their ears if you’re not careful. Should I get a cat brush?”

“Don’t you dare,” Jon mumbles, wriggling slightly in an attempt to get better situated on Martin’s lap.

He fails, and ends up slightly more unsteady than he started. 

Martin tsk’s softly, picking his pen up again and turning back to his notebook. “Careful, koteczku,” he murmurs. “Don’t want you falling. Now. Thematically speaking, do you think nighttime fog or daytime fog is better for loneliness?”

//

Martin is a surprisingly good cook, considering he ate a frozen lasagna the night before and his freezer seemed to be better stocked than his fridge.

But they get home, Martin deposits Jon on the kitchen table (honestly, didn’t Martin know how unsanitary that is?) and pulls out some rather wilted herbs and vegetables and the bag of frozen chicken while Jon stood from the table and wandered towards the stove.

“My mother had a cookbook from her babcia,” Martin says to Jon as he throws ingredients in, seemingly at random. “Before World War I. It was handwritten, too.” He laughs slightly. “Do you know how hard it is to read faded cursive?”

Yes. Yes, Jon very much knows how hard it is to read faded cursive, as that is a trial that researchers oft face.

“This is my babcia’s rosół recipe,” Martin continues, “and I’m sure she’s rolling in her grave because I’m making a fast version. Not exactly home early enough to make broth for six hours, are we?”

Martin sighs, turns to face Jon. “I am making a Polish dish for a cat,” he mutters, running a hand over his face. “I’ve gotten Tim’s idea stuck in my head. So if you don’t eat this, I’ll be – I’ll be quite cross, you understand.”

Jon raises his eyebrows at Martin. “So long as there is actual seasoning,” he says dryly, “I’m sure it will be just fine, if you are as good at cooking as you are at making tea.”

Martin smiles, reaches out to carefully pet Jon’s head. “No noodles for you, though,” he says. “Well, no noodles for either of us. I don’t have noodles. Last time I went to the right store, run by this sweet old Polish man who still speaks Russian half the time, I accidentally spilled my change everywhere, and I haven’t been back. Can’t look at the place without going red, you know?”

“You don’t know embarrassment until you’ve spilled a bottle of hair oil all over your girlfriend's sink,” Jon says, leaning against the counter.

Martin absently pats in Jon’s general direction, and succeeds in patting Jon’s cheek like a patronizing schoolteacher.

“It’ll be ready in a bit,” Martin promises.

(The soup was seasoned nicely. It was still far too bland for Jon’s taste, but it was seasoned nicely nonetheless, and Jon wasn’t in the mood for a dish that tasted of pure paprika.)

//

Dinner does not last forever. Thankfully, as Jon spent the meal trying to figure out how to eat _soup_ with his _hands_ as Martin again neglected to provide him with cutlery. But also unfortunately, because dinner means that Martin scoops Jon up and carts him over to the couch, laying down with Jon resting on his chest, tucking Jon’s head under his chin, and pulling a blanket over them both as the TV slowly turns on.

It is damnably comfortable. And were this a situation where the person Jon was laying atop of was aware that he was a person, instead of believing him to be a cat, Jon might be tempted to stay.

As it is, Martin lays down, pulls the blanket over them both, and Jon immediately tries to roll of the couch. Sure, it’ll end with an uncomfortable thump, but it’s better than this.

…But that does not happen, because Martin is strong, and the moment Jon starts to move Martin tenses his arm and begins to coo sweet nothings into Jon’s hair.

“Oh, good lord,” Jon mutters into Martin’s chest, even as he shuffles awkwardly to get more comfortable, because this was apparently a thing that would be happening tonight. A thing that would have background noise provided by Peter Coyote.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's a Lonely reference!
> 
> also you can't tell me that gertrude "the fourteen fears fear her" robinson didn't make elias install a shower in the archives so she could come directly to work after disrupting a ritual and not spend the day covered in something disgusting.
> 
> and why does jon suddenly have heterochromia? because leitners, man. also because i've been throwing spaghetti at a wall and have an Idea that may render my tags a lie. (sorry)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 3.
> 
> Cuddling occurs. 
> 
> Jon has to face the possibility of life without hot peppers.
> 
> Martin reminisces, and mentions something that he should not mention to his boss.
> 
> Tim leaves Martin on read.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter brought to you by a song that mixes mongolian throat singing and bagpipes. 
> 
> also i have 33 pages of this fic now, in case you were curious

Jon wakes up feeling rather suffocated, buried in warmth, pressed up against a space heater, with something weighty slung across his waist. There is light shining directly in his eyes, and his mouth feels like something died in it.

…he is not pressed against a space heater.

A space heater is not soft.

And that would also be a fire and/or burn hazard, Jon’s too tired to think which would be more treacherous.

Jon makes to flail his way to a sitting position, shoving off the weighted blanket and blinking angrily at the sun in his eyes, sunlight that seeps through the one tiny window in Martin’s bedroom to land directly on Jon’s face, apparently, and tries to sit up. But he _fails_ in that endeavor due to one of Martin’s fingers being hooked in the loop of the collar, that damned _collar,_ which promptly yanks Jon right back down by virtue of nearly strangling him.

Jon wishes he could say the noise he made was dignified, but he is not in the mood to lie to himself. Not about that. He’s already spent quite some time lying over his assistants’ actions, he’s not in the mood to waste another lie over the dignity (or lack thereof) of the yelp he made as he was somewhat strangled and yanked back down to the mattress to the soundtrack of a cheerfully tinkling bell.

Martin, curled up next to him, yawns widely. Then he snuffles slightly into the pillow, wraps his arm more securely around Jon, and cuddles in closer.

How Martin manages to be comfortable curled around the “cold bundle of bones and long hair,” as Georgie loved describing him whilst drunk, Jon has no idea.

If Jon had to hazard a guess as to what happened last night, he’d say that the relatively bland soup Martin had fed him while chattering about his babcia did what warm soup often does, and acted as a sleep aid, leading to Jon falling asleep on top of Martin, and then Martin carted him to bed. Like one would a cat.

Is Jon the one going mad, he wonders faintly? Perhaps he and Elias are the ones sharing a delusion. Perhaps he is just a cat who ran afoul of a Leitner.

…Jon quickly decides that that particular thought is profoundly unpleasant, more unlikely than others being caught in a delusion, and pointedly turns his mind away.

Martin apparently did not have alarms set on the weekends. Or, if he did, they did not align to… whatever decent time it presently is, Jon’s not sure since Martin doesn’t have an actual clock in his room, and getting to Martin’s phone is a bit impossible.

Reluctantly, Jon settles down, trapped by Martin’s arm and the blankets. He would be here for a while yet.

…He does extricate Martin’s finger from his collar, though. There are some indignities he’d accept, such as being carried. But if he would be forced to wear a collar, then said collar would not be touched.

//

Martin wakes late on the weekends. There’s no real reason for him to be up, nothing for him to do most of the time, so why should he get up early? He can’t exactly afford to run the heater most nights, so once his bed gets warm, there’s not much incentive to get up.

He wakes with sun in his eyes and something soft and warm curled up in his arms.

And Martin sighs with relief, curls in just a bit closer, buries his face in the fur at the back of Jon’s neck. “Good morning,” he mumbles, lightly scratching Jon’s chin for a moment before sitting up.

Jon gives Martin one of the usual unimpressed looks, wriggling out from under the blankets and yawning widely enough that Martin can see a mouthful of sharp, surprisingly white, teeth.

“Did your owners brush your teeth?” Martin asks, relaxing and laying his hands in his lap. “Or is flossing something you can do on your own, like opening doors and stealing files?”

Jon’s unimpressed look intensifies, and he blinks at Martin.

“I’ve always heard cats slow-blinking at someone is a sign of trust, or – or something,” Martin muses, “but I don’t think that was slow enough, was it?”

Jon stares Martin directly in the eyes for a long moment, before climbing over Martin’s lap and gracelessly clambering out of bed.

“Okay then,” Martin sighs, stretching until his back pops. “Guess you want breakfast.”

Jon meows pointedly, rocking back on his hindlegs and batting at the doorknob.

“You can open a wooden door that weighs more than you do, and break into our boss’ office, but you can’t manage my door?” Martin huffs, finally climbing out of bed. “I guess this isn’t a fair test, though,” he continues, reaching over Jon and opening the door with more than a bit of effort, only for Jon to dash through the doorway like he was being chased by something awful. “Okay then.” Martin gives Jon a slightly bemused look, and follows him into the kitchen “The door always sticks when it’s cold, you know?”

Jon ignores him, leaping up onto the counter and looking pointedly at the tap, then at Martin.

“Water?” Martin guesses. Jon meows in response, but the noise doesn’t sound irritated, so Martin thinks he’s probably correct. “No rosół for breakfast,” Martin continues as he fills a bowl with water and puts it down in front of Jon. “I don’t think I can live with my babcia’s disapproval again. I – I guess I’ll need to go get some groceries before I try making more cat food.” He reached over, carefully scratching between Jon’s ears. “Will you be okay while I’m gone?”

Jon gives Martin a distinctly unimpressed look, and Martin just laughs.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then.”

//

Jon does not waste time after Martin leaves. He needs to shower, get some of his books, and get spices, because Polish food was rather… lacking. Filling, but not exactly up to Jon’s standards. So he marks Martin’s address down on the back of his hand, chugs a glass of water so he feels less like something died in his mouth, and quite literally runs out of the building like a student late for class.

Martin is warm and admittedly a rather comforting presence when he isn’t nervously wringing his hands and staring somewhere over Jon’s shoulder, but Jon doesn’t exactly want to end up rancid from going multiple days without showering.

Also, he desperately needs his hairbrush. And three more hairties, because his last one has been eaten by Martin’s excess of blankets.

//

Martin gets back to the apartment munching on a savory pasty and carrying two small bags of groceries, mainly full of the kind of foodstuff needed to make cat food. And also the ingredients for proper rosół, because Martin still feels his babcia’s disappointment from beyond the grave and the recipe makes enough to feed at least eight people. The bones and meat go straight to the fridge, because it may have been quite a few years since he dealt with a cat, but he knows exactly what havoc cats can wreak on the kinds of bones intended for broth.

And then Martin glances over at the bowl of water – which is, Martin is relatively certain, completely untouched. There’s a glass in the sink, though, that Martin must have missed from doing the dishes last night.

“I still won’t give you rosół for breakfast,” Martin says to the apartment at large as he sets the kettle on and begins chopping vegetables for the bone broth, “but the old man – the one who saw me spill all my change a while back – gave me some tips on making cat food. Did you know his wife has cats? Two cats, and they used to have a big mutt from a shelter, before she started going blind and had to give the dog to their daughter.”

Martin turns on the burner, and carefully shifts the pot over. He only knows how to make bone broth in large batches, but the rest will freeze well enough. Or he could put a little bit in Jon’s water. Cats never drink enough, according to what the old man said.

It doesn’t take long for the smell of bone broth to fill the flat, smelling like Christmases in Łódź when he was little; all Martin needed was to make pierogi and enough tea to feed a small army, and then maybe his babcia’s ghost would be satisfied. Not that he would be doing either of those, of course. The last time he’d tried to make pierogi was when he was sixteen and gotten more tips than usual, and he’d ended up burning his left arm badly enough that he had to go to A&E.

It’s not until Martin’s halfway through his tea and the broth is simmering that Jon finally appears, heralded by the soft sounds of cat feet on carpet and the faint ringing of a bell. Jon leaps onto the chair next to Martin, sighs when Martin reaches over and lightly pets his shoulder, and looks pointedly at Martin’s mug.

It takes Martin a moment to understand Jon’s meaning.

“I – no, I am not making you tea!” Martin splutters. “No, this is not for cats!”

Jon’s expression turns slightly plaintive, and he turns mismatched eyes on Martin.

“No!” Martin pulls the mug towards his chest. “I am making proper bone broth for you, I am not making you tea as well!”

Jon meows, sitting up a bit straighter and putting a paw on the table. There are three odd stripes around Jon’s ankle, Martin notices, nearly perfect stripes of fur untouched by the grey streaks.

Martin rallies, and stands up from the table. “ _No_ ,” he says firmly, draining the rest of his tea and putting the mug in the sink. “No tea for you.”

Jon slowly removes his paw from the table, and Martin gets the distinct impression that Jon’s scowling at him.

“…can cats even drink tea?” Martin asks.

Jon meows, and jumps down from the chair to wander towards the couch. Martin sighs, grabs his laptop, and follows Jon. It’s not like he was planning on doing much besides Netflix, but he feels more than a bit ridiculous trailing after a cat. But Jon waits until Martin’s settled on the couch to jump up beside him, settling next to Martin with the oddest air of reluctant excitement.

“Do you like history documentaries?” Martin asks as he carefully pulls the throw over his legs and Jon, carefully adjusting the blanket to and fro until Jon’s head is free and there’s enough slack for Jon to escape with ease. “Well, it’s in Polish. I don’t think you’d be interested, and I can’t translate, I’m afraid.” Martin laughs quietly. “My mum was fluent in English, and it’s not like my dad ever went with us to Łódź. He was Lutheran, you know? Mum wasn’t very Catholic, but her side of the family… well, I’m surprised babcia didn’t disown her when she married my dad.” Martin sighs, and clicks over to YouTube to search for the documentary. “The documentary’s about Solidarity. It’s – I mean, I guess that’s one of the cheerier topics from recent history? I don’t know much about it, besides what I learned in school.”

Martin glances down at Jon, then back at his computer. “I’m talking about history with a cat,” he sighs, and clicks on the right video. But he also buries his hand in Jon’s fur as the ad plays – Martin really needs to find a better ad blocker – and smiles a bit at how Jon leans into his side.

//

Jon does not speak Polish.

He suspects, by the time this little ordeal is over, he will have some grasp of the language.

But at present, he neither speaks nor reads Polish, so the video about Solidarity that Martin pulls up is unfortunately meaningless noise to Jon. If Martin had books on the subject (which he does _not_ , Jon checked the bookcase and found mostly notebooks filled with rather mediocre poetry and the occasional novel), perhaps Jon could at least have something interesting to do over the next day and a half of boredom.

Something besides sleep, of course.

But as is, Martin seems in no way inclined to change over to a documentary Jon can understand; his hand has stilled its absent petting, and Martin seems utterly engrossed in the film. It’s a state that Jon can sympathize with, though he himself tends to hyperfocus on one bit of research or another, or the odd book that manages to keep his attention.

And Martin is quite warm. And the blanket, though clearly made of some kind of wool, is very soft and has a pleasant weight to it.

And Jon begins to doze, leaning against Martin’s side, to the soundtrack of a Polish documentary and the noise of Saturday morning activities filtering through Martin’s windows.

//

The documentary is far longer than Martin expected; by the time he looks away (to glance over at Jon, who is thoroughly knocked out and leaning against Martin’s side), it's half five. And there’s a whole host of things Martin wants to look up, people he wants to learn more about, things he wants to ask his babcia about. She’s more likely to answer his questions than his mum.

…And more likely to pick up his calls. And the time difference isn’t bad at all. She’ll give him grief about his sleep schedule, but she’ll answer him. And maybe he can show her Jon, if she answers quickly and Jon doesn’t wake up.

(Martin shamelessly snaps several pictures of Jon curled up next to him with his head half in Martin’s lap, and sends them to Tim and Sasha without caption. Tim leaves him on read. Sasha sends a series of emojis. Martin huffs a small laugh, and puts his phone away.)

//

Jon wakes up to the distorted voice of an old woman speaking, unsurprisingly, Polish.

At this point, the only surprise is how much Martin spoke English to him. Though Jon isn’t sure what kind of backstory was given to his assistants by the delusion; perhaps Martin thinks he got Jon from a purely English-speaking household.

He just wishes that Martin had mentioned this fluency when he was transferred to the Archives. They’ve had a few Polish statement givers, a few Russian ones; Russian certainly isn’t the same as Polish, but Martin probably could’ve given instructions better than Google Translate did. All of those statements were easily discounted, but still.

Jon also wakes with his head on Martin’s lap, which is significantly more surprising than Martin’s conversation, as he fell asleep sitting next to Martin, and his head should have only ended up resting on Martin’s shoulder, at least. But no, his head is squished between Martin’s computer and Martin’s belly, and Jon is quite sure that there is going to be a spectacularly red mark down his face from said computer.

The woman’s tone changes abruptly as Jon struggles to sit up, a sudden burst of cooing and high-pitched speech that Jon is beginning to get used to. Reluctantly get used to, but get used to nonetheless.

“This is Jon,” Martin says, ruffling Jon’s hair. “Jon, this is my babcia.”

Jon glances at the screen – yes, that’s an old woman with Martin’s eyes on the other end of the video chat – and submits to the petting. He’s not sure why he bothers braiding his hair anymore.

(It’s because it turns into a horrific rat’s nest within twelve hours, and Jon’s not ready to figure out what his assistants will see if he leaves his hair unbraided.)

Martin talks to his babcia a few moments longer – grandmother, Jon guesses – before hanging up and stretching.

“Alright, Jon,” he says, carefully moving the computer to the coffee table and standing. “Time for dinner for the both of us, I think.”

Jon scowls at the abrupt loss of heat, but follows Martin to the kitchen nonetheless.

“Mister Rowan at the store said that it’s best to lightly cook the meat,” Martin rambles, and then catches Jon’s look. “Yes, I know, it’s clearly a nickname, but does _Martin_ sound Polish to you?” he points out, a bit sourly. “Odd that he keeps the nickname while running a Polish shop, but he does. Anyway, he said to lightly cook the meat and vegetables in the same pan. You’re more likely to eat things that taste like meat, apparently.”

Jon yowls, and jumps up onto the counter.

Martin picks Jon up, and moves him off the counter. “I don’t have enough space for you to watch,” he apologizes, looking away from Jon’s offended expression. “You’ll just have to trust me. And hopefully I won’t add paprika – I still don’t know how I got that confused. Also I’ll have to watch you closely the next couple days, make sure I don’t have to take you to the animal hospital. Peppers are bad for cats, apparently.”

Martin makes the mistake of glancing down at Jon as he goes to pull ingredients from the fridge, and catches a mournful look. “No, no spicy food for kitties,” he insists, leaning down to scratch Jon’s head. “No spicy food. I’ll have to talk to Tim and Sasha, I guess.”

Jon yowls.

//

If Jon has to deal with bland food, without even black pepper, he would kill the entire Archival staff within a week.

//

Martin chatters as he cooks, chatters about the documentary and about his babcia and about his work.

“…and we’ve been assigned to the Archives for three weeks now, and Elias still hasn’t gotten a new Archivist. It’s a bit odd, don’t you think?”

Jon lets out a meow that Martin takes as agreement.

“How are we supposed to be assistants to a position that isn’t filled yet? He just tells us, take the statements that won’t record properly and put them in a box for the next Archivist to deal with. We haven’t had a lot of those – besides the one you pulled out, thanks for giving me nightmares – but we just. Put them in a box.” Martin laughs irritably. “I don’t know what I’m doing, and this doesn’t help at all. And Tim and Sasha complain about how disorganized the whole place is.” He slides the cat food from pan to plate, and puts it on the floor for Jon.

Then, at Jon’s incredibly unimpressed look, Martin picks the plate back up and puts it on the table.

“Your previous owners were pretty odd, weren’t they?” Martin says as he puts together a sandwich for himself. He doesn’t even have the energy to deal with a boxed meal tonight. “I guess I should be happy about not having a proper boss, though. None of us know what to do, so it’s not like I can stand out, right?”

Jon freezes, piece of chicken clutched between his paws, and stares at Martin.

“What, do you know about proper degrees and qualifications for archival positions?” Martin says as he sits in the chair across from Jon. “You break into offices and eat like a person and pick out files, so I’m not surprised. Maybe you lived with professors who ranted to you about college programs.” He sighs. “I don’t have enough tea for this.”

Martin falls silent, and doesn’t speak for the rest of the meal. It’s not like a cat can tell Elias that he’s not at all qualified, but it’s not something he wants to admit aloud. Silly, perhaps, but Martin feels like Jon will give him another judgmental look, which is more than he can take. Not when Martin knows he needs to try and call his mum tomorrow.

//

Dinner ends. Martin does not explain more about the reasoning for his incompetence, unfortunately.

And he just laughs when Jon dunks his hands in the hot, soapy water soon to be used to wash the dishes, scrubbing quickly under his short fingernails until he's satisfied that his hands are mostly clean, because Martin does not provide cats with cutlery and vegetables cooked on the stove are not, in Jon's opinion, finger food.

Martin's oddly quiet as he washes the dishes, yawning occasionally, glancing often at the clock. And when he's done, he puts the kettle on for another cup of tea.

Perhaps Jon can make himself a cup as well. Maybe. 

//

Martin nearly trips over Jon once his tea is finished brewing as Jon makes a dash for the counter, leaping up with more grace than he usually has and batting at the box of black tea Tim had given him for his birthday.

“Jon –” Martin cuts himself with a sigh, and puts his tea down. “Not for you, ty mała kulko sierści. Kitties get stuffed animals as toys, not tea.” He moves quickly, scooping Jon up into his arms, and grabs his tea with one hand as he carts Jon into the bedroom.

The day was short in terms of hours, but history often took a toll on Martin, the same way the odd statements that wouldn’t record did. He might be able to write a bit, but staying out in the living room would just lead to him falling asleep on the couch, which would just make him sore for days.

There’s an awkward shuffle as Martin deposits the tea on the bedside table without putting one of Jon’s paws in the mug – the mug may have a picture of a cat on it, but that didn’t mean he wanted Jon’s assistance in flavoring the tea.

Jon, as he is wont to do, gives Martin an unimpressed look once he’s set down on the bed, and promptly makes to leave.

Martin catches him by the collar and swings him back up into his arms. “I’m sorry, Jon,” he mumbles when Jon yelps, lightly kissing the top of Jon’s head as he puts Jon back on the bed. “Didn’t mean to choke you, but it’s bedtime.”

Jon stays this time, though he moves to the part of the bed closest to the wall in a show of passive-agressiveness that Martin’s slightly impressed by.

“Bedtime dla małego koteczka,” Martin says in a singsong tone as he grabs pajamas. “Bedtime for you.”

//

Jon ends up stealing some of Martin’s clothes, again, because he’d forgotten anything comfortable enough to sleep in (along with socks warm enough to keep his feet from freezing in Martin’s cold apartment, and _his bloody hairbrush_.)

He also steals a dense-looking novel from Martin’s bookshelf, something that will perhaps keep his interest for the rest of the weekend.

And then Martin returns, closing the door behind him, and glancing at Jon. He yelps.

“Jon! No – do not – how did you get that?” Martin demands, yanking the book from Jon’s hands before Jon can take note of the page number, and Jon despairs of later finding where he’d left off. “Don’t – my books are not pillows!”

Jon decides against imagining what Martin saw if it involved “books” and “pillows” in the same sentence. But considering Martin just puts the book on his nightstand, Jon feels tentatively hopeful that he just might be able to get to it the next morning, and scoots over to the side of the bed closest to the nightstand with that in mind.

Martin thwarts him with ease, probably unintentionally, by picking Jon up like a sack of potatoes and depositing him back on the other side of the bed. “I want to write, Jon,” Martin says, sitting down and pulling the blankets up over his lap. “You have that side of the bed, I have this side.”

Jon again debates the merits of giving up on life. His dignity is already in tatters – he fell asleep in Martin’s lap, for god’s sake – but this boredom will do so much worse. Maybe he can sneak some files into Martin’s bag?

Jon sighs, leaning against Martin because the apartment is bloody _freezing_ and he can’t really feel his toes.

If he can’t get to that book, tomorrow will be miserable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "jon has three stripes on his ankle" martin that is his wrist and those are hairties
> 
> also, i'm not an immigrant, but i was definitely raised in a culture relatively separate from the mainstream, which i am basing martin's polishness off of. i do have experience with two languages going on in the home, though, so i'm reasonably certain i'm not butchering that lol


	9. Day 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon finally gets tea and a book. 
> 
> Martin calls his mum.
> 
> Depression naps happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the shorter chapter than yesterday; this one also has a bit of h/c, primarily because martin's mom is, canonically, a jerk.

Jon wakes when it is still dark out, and Martin’s hand around his waist is thankfully a bit looser than normal. But Jon is still careful when he wriggles out of Martin’s grasp, as he climbs over Martin’s sleeping form, and carefully goes after Martin’s phone.

And then promptly blinds himself, because apparently Martin is the kind of person who keeps his phone on full brightness at all times. But once his eyes have recovered, Jon glances again at the screen. Half four in the morning. Not exactly surprising, considering how much he slept during the day.

But…

Jon glances back at Martin, who is still peacefully asleep.

He glances across the bedroom with the aid of the phone’s flashlight.

_There._

Martin left the book by the nightstand.

Jon feels absolutely no shame in grabbing the book and carefully exiting Martin’s bedroom.

Priority one: teeth brushing.

Priority two: tea.

Priority three: book.

Judging from how long it took Martin to make tea the day before, Jon takes a calculated risk and puts the kettle on before heading to the bathroom and grabbing the toothbrush he’d secreted away in the cabinet. It’s a risk that pays off – Jon’s done long before the kettle boils. Admittedly, he feels a twinge of guilt at drinking Martin’s tea, but considering the kind of food Martin’s fed him, one teabag won’t exactly be a drain, now will it?

...Perhaps Jon can get his tea from the apartment, next chance he gets. It’s a different brand, of course, but considering everything else that this delusion has made his assistants wave off, he feels that Martin wouldn’t find an odd box of tea remiss.

All of Martin’s mugs are novelty, definitely from the second-hand shop; some are missing handles, some are chipped and carefully patched, some have been glued back together with what Jon hopes is food-safe glue.

Well, Jon can’t really be surprised. It’s not like the Institute pays well. He grabs one of the whole ones, an obnoxiously bright orange with a pattern of even brighter yellow stars, and carefully assembles his tea.

It’s never quite right, never the right mix of tea and milk and sugar and brewing time, but it’s tea, and it’s warm, and Jon gleefully tosses in pepper.

It’s not exactly the best tasting tea (Jon prefers white pepper), but it’s tea, and it has _flavor._

But the book is calling him. The size of a small brick, paperback, with rather kitschy cover that clearly dated it to the late 80’s or early 90’s. And, well, his tea is warm, and it would likely be several hours before Martin stumbled out of bed, so Jon feels no guilt in curling up on the couch, throw blanket spread over his lap and tea set neatly on a tea towel because apparently Martin has no coasters in his apartment.

_The palace still shook occasionally as the earth rumbled in memory, groaned as if it would deny what happened…_

//

Martin wakes slowly, curled in blankets, face pressed into the pillow, sunlight in his face.

There is no cat in his bed, he realizes as he makes his slow way to full wakefulness. There is no cat in his bed.

…Did Jon break out of his apartment?

Martin sits blearily, running a hand through his hair and glancing across his bedroom. Maybe Jon –

Oh.

Jon is sitting by the basket half full of folded laundry, slumped against the dresser, giving Martin a rather unimpressed look.

“Can you do any other expression?” Martin asks through a yawn. “Or does your face just default to that?”

Jon meows at him, delicately licking his paws and carefully grooming the fur between his ears.

“Alright, koteczku,” Martin says through another yawn as he stumbles out of bed. “Breakfast. Lunch?” He grabs his phone. “Ah, let’s just call it brunch.”

Jon gets to his feet, stretches, and walks out of Martin’s bedroom.

“At least you know what you want,” Martin says, following Jon into the kitchen. The bone broth was done, Martin was certain – the smell had completely permeated his apartment, and glancing in the pot confirmed this.

Jon jumps onto the counter as Martin strains out the vegetables and bones and trimmings, steam billowing from his sink and blinding him as it scorches his hands slightly. The detritus goes into a bowl to be thrown out, and the broth goes into a container for the fridge while he leaves the pot out to cool before washing it. The broth goes beside the vegetables required for the kind of cooking his babcia had taught him, the kind that required careful math to make enough to feed one person instead of eight or ten, the kind that said _season to taste_ and _put in part of a tomato_ , the stuff of nightmares for the average self-taught cook.

“Don’t suppose you want the bones, do you?” Martin asks absently, glancing over his shoulder at Jon as he shuts the fridge.

Jon jumps off the counter and walks away.

“Well, what about breakfast?” Martin snaps, drying his hands on his joggers and huffing slightly. “Can you cook for yourself?”

Jon ignores him, climbing up onto one of the chairs at his table, and looks flatly at Martin.

“Don’t – don’t give me that. I don’t need that from you today.” Martin jabs a finger in Jon’s direction –

And then abruptly deflates. Martin crumples, back hitting the kitchen drawers as he slides down to the ground, knees pulled up to his chin, face buried in his hands. He had told his babcia last night that he’d try and call his mum.

At best, he’d get this kind of imperious distaste from his mother. At worst, he wouldn’t get anything.

Or maybe it should be the opposite. Imperious distaste could be worse, but at least he could ask how she’s doing. Oh, she’d probably lie to him, but he couldn’t be faulted then for not trying.

There is a light pressure on Martin’s left knee.

He looks up, pulling his hands away from his face.

Jon is standing there, looking very awkward, one of his paws resting on Martin’s knee. He lets out a small _mrow_ , pats Martin’s knee again.

Martin smiles a watery smile, and carefully pats Jon’s paw. “Don’t suppose you have experience with uncomfortable family conversations, do you?” he asks quietly, jokingly, hooking his hands under Jon’s front legs and pulling Jon fully into his lap. Jon goes stiff, ears twitching backwards and tail standing at attention, but Martin buries his hand in the fur at the nape of Jon’s neck, and buries his face in the fur on top of Jon’s head.

So Jon doesn’t move. And slowly, he relaxes. Though whether that’s because he’s getting used to Martin or he’s given up on escape, Martin isn’t sure. Either way, Martin definitely needed reinforcement if he was to survive the call to the nursing home without crying.

Well, without crying while still on the phone.

//

Jon is… uncomfortable.

Both physically and mentally.

Physically because he is crammed awkwardly in Martin’s lap, and comfortable though that lap might have been yesterday whilst sitting on the couch, laying face down on the cold kitchen floor with one hipbone digging sharply into the linoleum is _not the same_.

Mentally because Martin is presently crying softly into his hair, and that is not something Jon is at all equipped to deal with.

He’d signed up for this, of course, joining Martin on the floor when Martin had suddenly sat with a worrying redness to his eyes, doing his best to comfort Martin despite being a cat and, according to Georgie, “emotionally and socially incompetent in a way that would be funny if it weren’t so painful.”

And now Jon was stuck in Martin’s lap, face smushed against Martin’s thigh, one of Martin’s arms wrapped around his torso and Martin’s other hand gently grasping the nape of Jon’s neck.

And Jon had just managed to get his hair in order two hours ago, too.

Eventually, Jon gives up. It’s inevitable, and he could only do so much awkward shifting in an attempt to get comfortable before admitting defeat, before admitting to himself that he is far too bony to ever get comfortable on the floor in any manner.

Honestly, if Jon had known that Martin would react this way to his refusing the boiled bones, Jon would’ve just accepted them. He wouldn’t have eaten them, but he wouldn’t have said no.

There’s not a whole lot for Jon to do. His book is still on the coffee table – page 257 – and it’s not like he could read in front of Martin, anyway. And he is bored. Again.

//

Martin isn’t sure how long he sits there with Jon. It’s long enough for his foot to go to sleep, but that doesn’t say much, and he didn’t really take note of when he got up.

But it’s just past one when he finally sits up, wipes his eyes, lets Jon go.

Jon promptly rolls over and gives Martin a look that is a mix of _are you okay?_ and _what the hell was that?_

Truly, Jon’s expressions were a gift. And Martin smiles, gently scratches at Jon’s neck, and carefully picks Jon up as he stands. “And now,” he says to Jon, “for something greatly unpleasant.”

Martin grabs his phone from the table as he passes, collapsing onto the couch in a graceless sprawl, and scrolls through his recent calls.

Tim.

Tim.

Sasha.

The retirement home.

Martin briefly presses his face against Jon’s neck, sighing. He needs a life of some sort, something beyond having a grouchy cat and confusing work that he isn’t qualified for with coworkers who occasionally invite him for drinks.

But Martin dials the home, taps his fingers nervously against Jon’s ribcage.

Jon tucks his head under Martin’s chin, a move that seemed profoundly awkward on Jon’s part, but one that makes Martin smile nonetheless.

The nurse who usually works the phones is Romanian, a nice woman named Mihaela who doesn’t speak a word of Romanian and has a thick Belfast accent.

It’s not Mihaela who picks up the phone. No, the man who answers Martin’s call and gives the usual spiel has a distinct London accent, and sounds _very_ bored.

“Hi, yeah, I’m – I’m trying to call Jadwiga Blackwood? I’m her son, Martin. Uh, J-A-D-W-”

“Got it,” the man says. “Give me a minute.”

Martin’s hands tighten in Jon’s fur as the hold music plays, to a point that is probably uncomfortable for the cat, though Jon doesn’t protest.

The music cuts off, and Martin’s heart stops.

“Witaj, Martin.”

His mother’s voice does not help Martin’s heart restart.

//

Jon lays sprawled across Martin’s chest in a position he was beginning to get accustomed to as Martin speaks rapid Polish to whoever is on the other end – his mother, probably, considering the shared last name and the little bit of gossip he’d overheard while passing by the breakroom, where Martin mentioned that he’d gotten his mother to go to a retirement home.

His head is tucked under Martin’s chin, which admittedly he himself initiated, but this. This is not Jon’s forte. His forte is books and research and focusing on something to the point he forgets to sleep. He is not prone to comforting, not used to giving or receiving comfort.

But nor is Jon heartless. And he can hear Martin’s heart thudding rapidly like he’s running a marathon as he speaks on the phone, voice awkward and strained and obviously uncomfortable.

Martin doesn’t say a lot, in that conversation. He mostly listens. And Jon can hear just a bit of the woman on the other end, and her tone makes Jon’s hackles – metaphorical for him, perhaps literal for Martin – rise. She sounds overall unpleasant, sharp, cold, and though Jon can’t see Martin’s face, he can guess the expression.

Jon guesses that it’s roughly the same as the one Martin had when he’d collapsed on the kitchen floor, trying not to cry.

//

“Mhm. Bye, mum,” Martin says, after at least half an hour of general unpleasantness that made his throat constrict and his chest tighten.

“Do widzenia,” his mum says shortly, and hangs up.

Martin lingers there for a moment, hand buried in Jon’s fur, still holding the phone to his ear as if his mum would call back, apologize, ask about work and whether he’d gotten around to getting a pet of some kind, the way his babcia had.

She does not.

So Martin carefully twists, doing his best not to disturb Jon too much, and puts his phone on the coffee table.

Had he left the book out here?

Martin shakes his head. Probably. He’s tired and drained from that phone call, of course he’d forget where he put a random book he’d found at the second hand shop.

Martin wriggles just a bit, just enough to hook the throw blanket around his foot, and pull it up over himself and Jon.

“So that’s my mum,” Martin says after a moment.

Jon is silent.

“Yeah. She’s – well, she’s my mum, and that’s what matters, I guess.”

Martin is always drained after those calls, and today is no different. And considering the warm weight laying on his chest, it’s not exactly surprising that he slowly drifts off to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i apologize for my google translate polish greeting/goodbye, duolingo is only giving me basic vocab right now. 
> 
> what was jon reading?   
> wheel of time book one: the eye of the world. pretty good, so long as you don't read into the subtext and take notes, because that shit gets DETAILED. just. take it at face value lol.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias is a bastard.
> 
> Jon gets good food.
> 
> All the assistants get work assigned by the resident AC (Archivist Cat).
> 
> Somebody else uses the Godforsaken Armchair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah in my defense there's not a whole lot of shenanigans involved in "people have a normal workday, apart from their boss, who's bored out of his mind and chilling on the lap of one of them"

Monday dawns for Martin with the noise of heavy rain and the feeling of getting smacked in the face by a cat paw.

It’s getting to be rather usual, that.

Jon has stayed on his chest, apparently; when Martin opens his eyes, he gets a face full of grey-streaked fur and mismatched eyes.

Jon meows, bats Martin over the head again, and climbs off Martin’s chest.

Martin just groans, and pulls the blanket over his eyes. It’s not exactly unusual, falling asleep after calling his mum. If she actually takes his call, of course.

This is why he usually did those calls in bed, because it’s easier to explain the rustling of blankets than it is to deal with a profoundly sore back for two days from falling asleep on his awful couch.

Which is something Martin will have to deal with.

He groans again as he sits up, twisting until his back cracks with an alarmingly loud noise, and props his elbows on his knees as he glances around the apartment.

Jon is sitting on a chair at the kitchen table, looking pointedly at Martin.

“Are you telling me you want breakfast?” Martin asks, rising from the couch and dragging the blanket with him, because Jon is surprisingly warm for such a scrawny cat, and his apartment is cold. “Or – ah, fuck, it’s late.”

Well, it’s half five, but if Martin wants to avoid the worst of rush hour, he has, oh, about ten minutes to get ready and out of the door.

“…I guess you’re getting salami for breakfast today,” Martin says, a bit mournfully. The sheer amount of processed meat could not be good for Jon, regardless of how high-quality it is. And he’d recognized the label, Sasha hadn’t exactly gotten cheap stuff.

Jon just meows at him, and Martin swears that Jon pointedly jerks his head in the general direction of the bedroom.

But no, that just has to be the result of too much sleep. Jon just happened to tilt his head, and Martin’s making things up based on the fact that Jon has picked out files and opened doors and broken into offices.

//

The Archives are just as spooky as they were Friday, chilly and dark as Martin descends the door with Jon in his arms. There’s no real order to what happens in the Archives, considering there’s still no bloody archivist, but getting in this early still feels a bit odd.

“Maybe in a few weeks, you’ll like staying here overnight,” Martin says idly, after he’s turned on the lights and deposited Jon in the chair.

Jon stares at him.

“Not that I don’t like having you,” Martin hastens to assure Jon, “just that it might be a bit better, so you don’t have to deal with commute. And – and things like that.”

Jon stares for a moment longer, and then jumps from the chair and walks purposefully towards the archivist’s office.

Martin just sighs, and goes to the break room to make tea. Would Jon manage to grab one of the disturbing cases today, or one of the ones that’s just the result of a bad trip?

They’re nearly out of the tea Tim prefers, Martin notes. It’s not exactly an expensive brand, but he’s the only one who likes straight black tea, as opposed to earl grey.

Well, if Tim doesn’t get a new box in the next few days, Martin figures some earl grey won’t kill him.

//

Reading multiple genuine statements a week is – tiring, at best. Jon knows from experience, after being laid low by a vicious migraine when he tried to read genuine statements for three consecutive days, and had been in bed the entire weekend convinced he had the flu and feeling too awful to get himself to A&E. And the weekend’s been hard enough for Martin, and Jon’s not an _utter_ bastard. So he pulls out a statement that, after reading two rows, is clearly benign.

Then he pulls out two more statements with the same benign quality, for Sasha and Tim. The follow-up for each of these could easily be handled individually, and if not, then it wouldn’t do any harm if his assistants take a few days to finish the follow-up.

Keep them busy. Give Martin something to do besides make tea and look at Jon. Give Tim something to do besides playing games on his phone. Give Sasha –

Well, Sasha is the one assistant who regularly finds genuine work to do, so Jon really can’t complain that much.

Jon leaves the office with files in hand, when he notices something awry.

Namely, the Leitner that he’d spent three hours on Friday staring at in an attempt to figure out how he’d destroy a book made with asbestos (It probably wasn’t made with asbestos, it’s probably a horrific book with the strange quality of being inconveniently fireproof, specifically intended to make Jon’s like difficult)? It’s missing.

Well, this makes destroying it significantly more difficult.

He just hopes that Martin doesn’t resort to trying to give him canned food or kibble before he can figure out where the Leitner went.

Or homemade cat treats.

//

(It’s not exactly professional, but being stuck in such a predicament will be good for Jon’s development. Perhaps it will make him a bit more credulous when genuine statements come along.

Though Elias can't deny that it's truly quite hilarious, and he greatly enjoys having a comedy he can glance at whenever his hand cramps around his pen.)

//

Martin can’t exactly say he’s surprised when he comes back from the breakroom, mug of tea in hand, to see a file sitting on his desk. And one on Tim’s desk. And one on Sasha’s.

Jon is laying in the armchair, blanket up to his chin, and looks at Martin with a baleful expression for some reason.

“Was Tim right in calling you an archivist cat?” Martin asks as he puts his tea down. “Should we get you a little ID badge?”

Jon does not look impressed, even though Martin chuckles a little as he sits down.

“Here, Jon. Want to read the statement with me?” Martin pats his leg and scoots his chair away from his desk, to make picking Jon up easier.

Jon stares at Martin.

Martin looks at Jon, eyebrows raised hopefully.

The standoff continues for about twenty seconds before Martin sighs and admits defeat.

“I think that may be the most cat-like thing you’ve done the entire time I’ve met you,” he says, and opens the folder. “You’ve never even done zoomies around my apartment in the middle of the night.”

Jon yowls at him.

“Yes, yes, I know, I’m working. Are you a workaholic archivist kitty?” Martin’s computer lets out a juddering noise as the fan kicks on.

Now Jon just looks offended, and Martin sighs again.

“Don’t give me that nonsense. You can’t expect sympathy when you won’t accept cuddles. I don’t – I don’t think cats can understand verbal sympathy.”

//

“Are you in the doghouse?” Tim asks after taking in the scene – Martin in his chair, Jon in the armchair, a distinct lack of cuddles or contact of any kind.

“No,” Martin says, more than a bit defensively. “I’ll have you know, he spent most of yesterday asleep on top of me.”

“Sure,” Tim drawls. “Of course he did.”

“He did!”

Tim just laughs, ambling over to his desk. “Oh, did our resident archival cat help out this morning?” he asks, only half joking as he glances over the file waiting for him.

“Yes, because if you spend any more time on Candy Crush, I will hide your phone charger,” Jon says, and tries not to be offended when the conversation continues as if nothing happened.

“Mhm. I’ve got a normal statement. No weirdness.”

“Lucky you. Give me a half-hour and we’ll see how jealous I am.”

“Excuse you,” Jon snaps, sitting up straight and glaring at Tim. “All of those statements are normal statements, if you have difficulty that is on you.”

“Yes, that’s a very important addition,” Tim says, nodding wisely. “I _do_ need tea before I work on this.”

Jon sighs.

Martin stands quickly, dropping his pen on the file. “I’ll get that for you,” he says, and is already halfway to the breakroom before Tim can tell him no.

Tim just shrugs at Jon. “Don’t suppose I can get you in my lap, make him completely lose it?” Tim asks, grinning widely, eyes twinkling in excitement.

Jon lays back down.

“You’re no fun.”

Jon desperately needs a way to read in front of the others that does not involve lap sitting, he decides; napping in the chair is awful on his back, and he’s bored out of his mind most of the time. He can only spend so much time tending to his hair before it gets ridiculous.

Martin emerges from the breakroom a few moments later, carrying Tim’s white mug with the _You Tried!_ star design. “You’re almost out of tea, by the way,” he says to Tim as he hands over the mug, full of what’s largely just hot milk and sugar with a hint of tea flavoring.

Tim just nods absently, clicking away at the recording software. “You already done recording yours?” he asks, reaching out with one hand for the tea, not quite looking up from his computer.

“Yes, I did it an hour ago. It’s an easy one.”

“Thank god for that.”

“Yeah, I –” Martin shrugs. “Definitely lucky.”

Jon stares up at the ceiling, dismayed. His hair is damp, it will dry in an awful manner despite the French braids he’d done today, and there is nothing else for him to do.

//

“Really, Sasha, I don’t want anything from the – _oh!_ ” Martin abruptly cuts off when Jon clambers into his lap, head barely avoiding an unpleasant collision with the underside of Martin’s desk, and settles himself carefully in Martin’s lap to get a good look at the screen.

Sasha just grins. “I’ll see if they have cat treats,” she promises, grabbing her purse and vanishing up the stairs, Tim directly behind her.

Martin stares down at the top of Jon’s head.

“So,” he says, a bit awkward. “Um. I’ll just continue typing this up, shall I?”

Jon turns his head to give Martin an impatient look, and meows sharply.

“Okay. I’ll do that, then.”

//

“They don’t have cat treats,” Tim announces, holding the door for Sasha has she carefully maneuvers down the stairs, bag of takeaway in hand, “but we got him a kid’s size of the spiciest teriyaki they had.”

Martin looks over from his computer, face twisting into an awkward expression as his ears begin to flush. “Tim, cats can’t eat spicy food,” he says, grimacing apologetically.

Tim purses his lips. “Well, do you like spicy teriyaki chicken that’s five out of five on the spiciness scale?”

“Tim, I’m Polish.”

“Polish people can like spicy food!” Tim says, a bit defensively. “We also got you stir fry. Our treat, for taking care of our little feline archivist. You’d better continue with the pictures, though.”

Martin laughs, awkwardly dropping his hand to rest between Jon’s shoulderblades. “Thanks.”

“If he can’t have spicy peppers,” Sasha says, dropping the bag on her desk and sorting out napkins and chopsticks and food containers, “then why didn’t you mention taking him to the vet on Friday? You saw how much pad thai Tim gave him, and it’s not like Tim eats anything below a four on the spice scale.”

“Because, I didn’t? I didn’t know until later that I should’ve, and he seemed fine?”

Sasha hums. “Well, how about we give him a few pieces of chicken, put the rest in the fridge, and see how he does?”

Jon perks up, ears twitching towards Sasha.

“He agrees with me,” Sasha says, a bit cajoling. “Just a few pieces, Martin, and we’ll see. Besides, the rice is probably good for him.”

“They’re obligate carnivores,” Martin mutters.

“I don’t see what that has to do with eating anything spicy,” Tim says, grabbing his food from Sasha’s desk and flopping into Jon’s armchair.

“…Fine.”

Tim lets out a small cheer.

//

They only let him have three pieces of chicken, and two bites of rice.

Martin tries to feed Jon with his fingers, but thankfully Jon’s glare apparently translates into cat delusion, so that is quickly changed for a spoon that somebody had probably used to stir tea.

But three pieces of well-seasoned chicken is better than a day entirely subsisting on salami, so Jon can’t complain too much.

It’s worth the pictures that Sasha gleefully takes, and sends to Tim and Martin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> funny story i once went to a vietnamese restaurant and didn't know that their spiciness scale was 1-4, and i ordered something at level 4, bc i was used to 1-5 being the default scale. i very much regretted that decision.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias is a proactive boss. 
> 
> Martin is in the doghouse. 
> 
> Jon tries to be helpful.
> 
> Tim ends up cuddling. 
> 
> Sasha gets in a fight with Artefact Storage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm just gonna slowly decrease in chapter length until they're the same as my first few chapters lol

There are already files sitting out and ready when Martin turns on the light in the Archives.

Martin turns Jon to stare into his eyes. “Did you break in here in the middle of the night?” he asks, slightly incredulous.

Jon glares.

“No, you’re right,” Martin sighs, “that’s a bit much. Go get your files while I put tea on, and then we’ll look at the files already out.” He puts Jon down carefully, the way you’d deal with an elderly dog, back feet first and gently easing them into supporting their own weight.

And then Jon’s off, headed towards the Archivist’s office, which Martin’s beginning to think may have a broken door handle, since the door is always shut when he walks by.

They’re almost out of Tim’s tea.

Martin hopes that he remembered to get more, since Tim usually needs the hit of sugar around three, and would get awfully cranky without it.

//

The files Elias decided to put out were all genuine ones, Jon discovers. All genuinely unnerving ones that would not record digitally. Ones that would thoroughly exhaust his assistants, leave all three of them tired and useless for the rest of the day. (They were taken from his “Won’t Record” box in his office. Jon found that box with the lid slightly ajar and the files is a slightly different order.)

The ones that Jon picks out are _not_ genuine, all rambling statements from people who need more sleep or less mind-altering substances or both.

Despite how much he wants to, Jon does not put his files on top of the ones Elias has assigned, or put the ones from Elias back into the box in Jon’s office, or try and find all statements related to a Leitner that may make everybody assume that the victim is a cat. Because despite the current... predicament, and Elias' refusal to assist Jon in any meaningful way, Elias is still his boss. 

No, he carefully tucks the files under the ones Elias pulled.   
  
From Jon, Tim gets one from a man who insists he saw faeries in his mother's nursing home (kept away from Martin for obvious reasons). Sasha gets one from a pair of missionaries who say they saw their old mission supervisor climb out of the river where he'd drowned. Martin gets a statement from a young Polish woman who claims that the space under her front doorstep is haunted.   
  
From Elias, Tim gets the statement of a young man who's prosthetic arm has... interesting properties. Sasha gets one that's from an old, American veteran of their war in Korea. Martin gets a rant from a young mother who insists that her father is haunting her, looking the way he did in his wedding pictures from fifty years ago.  
  
Jon sighs. Elias is an unhelpful boss, but Jon knows what happens when work that has been specifically assigned somehow does not get done.

//

It’s half ten when Tim finally gives up on his attempted recording, shoves angrily away from his desk. There have always been some files that just won’t record, won’t digitize. Usually, they give them to Elias, who says he’ll “find a solution, thank you,” and that’s that.

Maybe Elias is getting back at them for letting Jon knock him flat. Who knows. He’d agreed to them getting a cat for the archives. He’d been fine with Martin taking Jon home each night – or at least, there have been no passive-aggressive emails from Rosie on his behalf, or direct confrontations with him calling all three of them upstairs to inform them that Jon’s tenure as archival cat is done.

“You okay?” Sasha asks quietly, glancing over at Tim.

Tim just lets out an inarticulate groan, burying his face in his hands.

“Cat over there,” Sasha says, pointing towards Martin, who had successfully coaxed Jon up into his lap sometime after Tim had started working on his file.

Tim doesn’t bother with theatrics; he just turns to Martin, and raises his eyebrows. “Can I have Jon for a bit?”

Martin sighs. “If he’ll let you pick him up, sure,” he says, steadying Jon as he scoots away from his desk.

Tim walks over, looks down at Jon. Makes uncomfortably intense eye contact, considering Jon’s a literal cat.

But the moment passes, and it seems like Jon has made some kind of judgement. Whether that’s in Tim’s favor, well –

//

This is why Jon prefers to go through the statements before his assistants arrive. He’s got a bit of a knack for picking out the odd ones, the ones that won’t record, the ones that he’d best deal with because they make Martin shrink further and Sasha bury herself in her music and Tim turn towards some violent hack and slash game on his phone.

But he can’t – well, couldn’t, since this was Elias’ doing. Whatever his reasoning, Elias has very successfully ensured that all three assistants will have a _very_ bad day.

So Jon doesn’t stop Tim from picking him up. Doesn’t bat Tim’s hands away, or run. He just accepts it, leaning away from Martin slightly so that Tim can easily get his hands under Jon’s arms and scoop him up.

So he doesn’t bat Tim’s hands away. He doesn’t exactly help Tim, because how the hell is Jon supposed to help someone else pick him up, but it’s not like he puts effort into stymieing the action.

//

Tim doesn’t even feel up to making a joke about getting to pick Jon up; he just buries his face in the back of Jon’s neck, and moves through the room by memory until he can flop carefully onto Jon’s armchair. Jon yelps as they fall, but they end up curled up nonetheless, Tim’s long limbs somehow managing to fit into the armchair as he curls around Jon.

Tim has absolutely _no_ intent of moving for some time.

“…How about I make you some tea?” Martin offers from – halfway past Sasha’s desk, if Tim’s placing his voice correctly.

Tim doesn’t say no.

Martin doesn’t wait for confirmation.

//

“I can’t believe he trusts you and not me,” Sasha says through a mouthful of rice. “You’re the one who held him as Martin put the collar on!”

“And Martin was the one who strangled me,” Jon points out, carefully picking pieces of chicken from his cat bowl full of reheated spicy teriyaki chicken. “Be thankful that you haven’t had a time rough enough to necessitate that kind of thing, Sasha, I truly don’t believe it’s worth it.”

“He’s soft, too,” Tim says with a cheerful grin.

“We all know that, Tim.” Sasha clamps her fork between her teeth and hits Tim on the upper arm.

“Ah, but when you really get your fingers in on the back of his head…” Tim sighs an overly moonstruck sigh, propping a hand on his fist and staring dreamily at Jon.

“Yes, thank you ever so much for messing up my hair,” Jon says drily. “It’s not like I’ll have to spend ten minutes trying to fix whatever tangled mess you created.”

“And so _warm_ …”

“Tim,” Jon says warningly.

“Really, Tim,” Martin sighs, putting down his sandwich. “He’s a cat. What did you expect?”

“A screeching monstrosity worthy of Artefact Storage,” Tim says innocently. “Or a split lip.”

Now Martin flushes, ducks his head and returns his full attention to his sandwich.

“I do apologize for that,” Jon says. “Just, ah. I didn’t believe you would let me go.”

“See, that’s why I give him his space,” Sasha says. “What’s he going to do from across the room? Yowl at me?”

“He does that,” Tim points out. “Very chatty.”

Jon sighs, and puts the last piece of chicken in his mouth.

//

“Artefact Storage doesn’t believe me,” Sasha declares, sometime past four but not yet time for Sasha and Tim to vacate the premises along with everybody else, save Jon and Martin. She’s staring at her phone, free earbud blasting folk metal loud enough that Jon fears for her hearing.

“What do they not believe you about? They don’t believe you forgot your earbuds yesterday?”

Sasha glowers. “I _didn’t_ forget my earbuds, Tim, don’t be stupid.” She shakes her head, and puts her phone down on the desk, face-up. “They don’t think we have an archival cat.”

“Well, we don’t,” Tim says innocently. Jon feels a slight twinge of fear in his chest. Tim had never been one for malicious humor, but. Well. Malicious when aimed at a human is very different than malicious when aimed at a cat.

“We don’t?” Sasha raises an eyebrow, makes a _go on_ gesture.

“We have no archival cat. We have a new boss, a new Archivist – an _arcatvist_ , if you will.” Tim grins widely, proud, humor gleaming in his eyes.

Sasha groans.

“Well, are you gonna send that, or am I?”

“You don’t even have their number,” Sasha retorts, picking her phone up again.

“Yeah, because you sniped me!”

“Not my fault,” Sasha says, singsong, as she quickly types out Tim’s pun. Probably verbatim. Sasha’s always been good at taking minutes.

“Excuse you—” Tim shakes his head. “We’ll debate that later. No, see, Jon’s our new Arcatvist. He’s involved in planning, which is why he talks so much. He gives us _files_ , for god’s sake. And he does nothing productive, just like a real boss!”

Even Martin laughs slightly at that. Jon scowls at Tim.

There’s a moment of silence, until Sasha’s phone buzzes again.

“I – no, they won. They have a service dog named Fifi. That – that wins.” She quickly forwards the picture to both Martin and Tim.

Tim purses his lips. “No, I’m still fighting this,” he declares. “Send me their number. I won’t admit defeat that easily!”

“Tim, he has a bandanna! With stars on it!”

“Sasha, this battle is not over, and I will not have you declare premature defeat!”

Jon sighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to Raeolu, who came up with "arcatvist" and gave me the ok for including it  
> i shit you not, i spent about two hours last night trying to come up with something like that and i was just "archivat... arcatvist..." on loop
> 
> also can we appreciate that, in canon, elias doesn't really get ominous until the season finale of season 2. episode 80. brutally murders leitner. and i'm just like "yeah this is set maybe three or four weeks into season one, but jon knows those vibes are Rancid"


	12. Day 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifi makes an appearance. 
> 
> Jon and Martin both get drenched. 
> 
> The babcie are explaned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry for missing several days!!! i found an old video game and hyperfocused on it lol
> 
> also, how bout that first episode, huh? 
> 
> also also, babcie = plural of babcia. i'm going with the polish plural, primarily because seeing a russian word with -s tacked on at the end to indicate that it's plural? that irks me to no end lol
> 
> also to the third power, dziadek: grandfather

It is very early in the morning, and Martin hears the kettle whistling.

But considering just how much tea Martin makes on an average day, it’s easy for him to pass it off as a hallucination, curl back into his pillow, fall back asleep.

//

Martin wakes up without Jon.

He’s just alone. Well, alone save for the screeching of his alarm, which has already set off his fight or flight response in a way that nothing save being shot will ever manage, but that’s normal.

Martin sits up, stares at his feet. At the pair of old loafers that honestly must be from secondary school, because it’s been years since Martin’s feet were that small.

He really should just throw those out, but. He’ll deal with that later. When he finishes tidying his laundry.

Martin sighs, and clambers out of bed. It’s early. It’s cold.

The things he does for a cat who escapes the bedroom at night to do… whatever. Martin’s vaguely afraid to find out what happened.

But when he turns on the kitchen light, Jon’s just sitting at the table, head resting on an open paperback.

“Jon, no, those aren’t –” Martin just shakes his head. “If you keep on trying to use my books as pillows, I won’t let you sit at the table,” he threatens, but his hands are gentle as he lifts Jon’s head and slides the book out from under it.

Jon still gives him a wide-eyed, worried look, one that sticks as Martin puts the kettle on and pulls out Jon’s breakfast and a box of cereal.

When Martin puts the plate in front of Jon, Jon looks frightened.

When Martin sits down across from Jon with his tea and breakfast, Jon still looks frightened.

Martin takes a sip of tea, and sighs. “I – look, just stop sleeping on my books, okay? They’re not new, and I’ve been meaning to get around to reading them for a while, but you can’t sleep on them!”

Jon’s stare doesn’t change, and he lets out a very small meow.

“Don’t try and, and _guilt_ me or something,” Martin says firmly. “You can’t sleep on my books, okay? I’m not going to pull out a spray bottle, that doesn’t work, but you can’t sleep on my books! I – are you bored? Is that the problem? Because I can put on podcasts, or, or something, or – oh, goodness, I still haven’t gotten you cat toys, have I?”

Jon’s expression is no longer plaintive and worried – no, it’s changed to something distinctly unreadable as he carefully clasps a piece of vegetable between his paws and brings it up to his mouth.

Martin sighs. “It’s not like I have any stuffed animals I can give you to start with,” he admits. “I sent those to my babcia when her neighbor’s great-granddaughter had her first kid. I guess I can go get something this weekend?”

Jon looks at Martin’s cereal, then up at Martin, and Martin sighs again.

“Yeah, I know. Short on time. How is it that you’re more punctual than I am, and you’re _literally_ a cat?”

Jon primly takes another bite, and Martin just shakes his head.

//

There is still work to be done on the cases from yesterday. Perhaps Jon was overzealous in bringing out secondary cases, but – he did what he did, and there’s nothing to be done of it.

Martin still looks less than eager when he turns on the lights in the Archives and heads into the breakroom to make tea.

Jon needs more soap, will soon need more hair oil, and a fresh pair of clothes for tomorrow. The clothes will be simple – he has his keys, after all, and whatever the effects of this Leitner, he still has his apartment – but the others… shipping always takes a week, and shipping hair oil is unwise at best. And somehow, Jon doesn’t think adding his hair oil to Martin’s grocery list will work, even if he puts money in Martin’s wallet. He’s admittedly curious as to the lengths to which this illusion will stretch, but perhaps pushing it too far will end badly.

Perhaps pushing it too far will break the illusion.

…Probably best not to risk it, Jon decides as he carefully rubs oil into his scalp. His hair is damp, but Martin’s plethora of blankets have eaten the last of his hairties again, and Sasha never has extras.

So his hair will be down today.

Jon grimaces is anticipation of just how poorly this will end. It’s not the worst feeling, somebody’s hand in his hair (as he’s had no choice but to discover over the past several days), but Jon imagines that it would be better if they actually knew what his hair is like, knew what _not_ to do to avoid turning it into a mess.

(Tim is largely at fault. He managed to ruin French braids. Jon isn’t sure he wants to know how that happened.)

(He’s curious, but he doesn’t want to know, as it would probably require a demonstration.)

//

“Really, what do you get into everyday?” Martin asks when Jon appears at half seven, smelling strongly of bergamot. “I doubt the old Archivist left perfume for you to roll in.”

Jon gives Martin a rather unimpressed look, and climbs into Martin’s lap to get a look at the files while Martin splutters.

“I – I get that you’re bored, but really!” Martin shoves on Jon’s shoulders, trying to force him to lay down, but Jon doesn’t law. There’s a surprising bit of strength there, and Jon settles on his own time. Which is quick, but still. “Are you going to offer research tips?” Martin asks, lightly running his hands through Jon’s hair. It seems smoother today; there’s less resistance when he does that. So Martin repeats the motion. “I – I really don’t know what I’m doing, I’m afraid. Well, I suppose that’s what you get, isn’t it?” He sighs.

Jon cranes his head, turning to look at Martin with narrowed eyes.

“Don’t give me that! Retirement homes aren’t cheap!” It’s not like the Institute pays particularly well, but it’s better than food service or retail, which were his other options.

Jon cocks his head slightly.

“I – look, academia is difficult, okay? Just, if you’re going to judge me, turn around and judge my work. I don’t want to deal with that. This statement is – well, it’s. It’s draining. It’s rough.”

Jon turns, slowly, sitting up straight.

“What, are you actually going to help?” Martin asks, a tad incredulously. “I know Tim called you the Arcatvist, but that was really a joke!”

Jon firmly puts his paw on one particular paragraph, and Martin sighs.

“You’re actually trying to help. Fine. It’s not like you can make it worse, I suppose.”

Jon meows pointedly, and Martin turns his computer on.

“Alright, mały koteczku. Let’s see what you’re trying to make me do. Are you just going to make me make a fool of myself?”

Jon meows again, sharper this time.

Martin just sighs.

//

“Why is it he always sits in your lap?” Tim asks. “You’re constantly getting up, what with the sheer amount of tea you make.”

“Maybe he just likes me best,” Martin says, carefully stroking Jon’s ears. The edges are a bit ratty, like he’s been in fights, but the damage looks old enough.

“Or maybe you’ve bribed him with Polish food,” Tim suggests, sitting down at his desk. And then he looks down at the files, and scowls.

Martin stands on reflex, gathering Jon up into his arms. “I’ll make you some tea,” he says, and Tim huffs.

“Got more,” Tim says, pulling a box of tea from his bag and waving it at Martin.

Martin’s careful with Jon – how could he not, considering how thin and bony Jon is? – as he moves to Tim’s side, gently placing Jon in Tim’s lap and taking the box of tea.

Jon doesn’t exactly look surprised, but he definitely looks disgruntled as Tim’s left arm wraps around him and right hand buries itself in his fur.

Tim likes his tea with a hefty amount of sugar and milk, Martin knows, and usually prefers to drink it alone. But, considering the file Tim has to work with today…

Martin feels no hesitation in pulling out the box of biscuits he’d hidden atop the fridge while Tim’s tea brews, wraps one in a paper towel, and brings it out with the tea.

Jon, surprisingly, is still in Tim’s lap. He’s sitting up now, looking intently at the computer screen and Tim types, but he’s still there – Martin had half expected him to leave in a huff and curl up in the armchair.

Tim accepts tea and biscuit without really looking, without really paying attention – that’s no surprise there, considering the kind of work Tim has lined up today.

…the kind of work Martin should have lined up today, if he knew _how_ to figure that out. Which he doesn’t. Which makes the general workday rather difficult.

Martin returns to his desk, biting back a sigh. And then he discovers that his tea, brewed back when he and Jon first got to the Archives, has gone quite thoroughly cold.

//

“Fifi’s coming today,” Sasha announces after lunch, spinning idly in her chair while staring at her phone. “Ten minutes.”

“Is that allowed?” Martin asked, a bit of a squeak in his voice.

Jon drops his head to his hands and sighs deeply. He’s – god only knows how this will go. He can probably fit under the armchair, and that is looking to be a rather tempting idea.

“Well, provided nobody tells Elias, I don’t see why not,” Tim says, not looking up from his rather intense game of Temple Run.

Martin just looks nervously at where Jon’s curled up on the armchair, blanket spread across his lap.

“I – I guess,” Martin finally mutters.

//

Fifi arrives with little fanfare, brought in by a woman with dark hair and a bad limp. Little fanfare on the part of the woman, at least.

“Oh my god,” Sasha coos, abandoning her desk without hesitation. “Can I pet her? Or is she working?”

The woman shakes her head. “She’s off duty,” she promises. “Go right ahead.”

Sasha buries her hands in Fifi’s fur the same way she does to Jon when he’s unlucky enough to get within range; utterly and eagerly and without a hint of shame.

Fifi is a large dog, a German Shepherd, with a bright pink bandana tied around her neck and an attentive look on her face as she stares as Sasha, who’s presently cooing nonsense.

Well, at least it’s not directed at Jon.

“I still say Jon wins,” Tim says from his desk, phone abandoned to watch Sasha make a fool of herself.

Sasha turns with a glare. “Look at her. Look at her! How can you say our grumpy little Arcatvist is cuter?”

“Not saying he’s cuter – sorry, Jon – just saying he’s objectively _better_. Can Fifi pull files?”

“Fifi makes it so I can walk,” the woman says dryly, and Tim falters.

“Okay, she’s much better trained,” he admits after a moment, “but I still like Jon more.”

“At least you have a degree of loyalty,” Jon mutters, looking at Fifi in dismay.

After a long moment of Sasha petting and cooing at Fifi, the woman clears her throat. “Ah. Cat?” she asks, looking pointedly at Jon.

“Yes!” Sasha straightens. “This is Jon, our grumpy temporary archivist.”

The woman doesn’t see fit to comment on that; she leans on Fifi as they advance, and as she gets closer, Jon can see the silhouette of a prosthetic leg all the way up to the woman’s thigh.

The woman’s careful with her balance as she leans over, and murmurs a quiet command to Fifi.

Fifi steps forward.

Jon stares at Fifi.

Fifi takes another step, and gingerly points her nose in the general direction of Jon’s hand, which is still resting in his lap. There’s a moment of quiet sniffing, before Fifi pulls away and barks happily at Jon.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Jon says, reaching out to gently pet Fifi. “Though I’m not sure you think I’m human or a cat.”

“She doesn’t usually like cats this much,” the woman comments, clucking her tongue and calling Fifi back to her side. “There you go.”

“Jon still wins,” Tim calls from his desk, and the woman huffs a small laugh.

“See you at the Christmas party, probably,” she says to Sasha. “Since you abandoned us in Artefact Storage.”

“Hey, you’re my replacement!” Sasha protests. “Don’t give me that!”

The woman just laughs again, and very carefully stumps her way out of the Archives.

If Jon weren’t near Martin’s desk, he wouldn’t have noticed how Martin’s shoulders lose their tension the moment the woman and Fifi leave. He wouldn’t have noticed the soft exhale, the way Martin’s hands slowly stop shaking.

“Cute dog,” Tim admits, turning finally to his computer. “But I still like Jon more.”

“Cat person,” Sasha accuses.

“No, just biased.”

//

When the time comes for Martin and Jon to leave, it’s pouring. And Jon does not have his raincoat, and Martin does not have an umbrella.

Martin looks out in dismay, an expression that Jon knows he’s matching perfectly.

“Well, nothing to it,” Martin says after a moment. “I don’t think this’ll let up soon, Jon, and I don’t want to sleep in the Archives.”

“It’s not that bad,” Jon says absently. “I have a heated blanket.”

Martin sighs. “Here we go.”

//

Martin is thoroughly dripping and drenched by the time he fumbles his key into the lock on his door, and stumbles into his apartment. Jon fared worse, though, coat soaked through and rather mud-splattered from a car passing a bit too close to the sidewalk.

“Okay,” Martin says, putting Jon down in order to shuck shoes and coat. “I’ll have you know, I don’t have a lot of towels, so I hope you appreciate what I’m going to do for you.”

Jon meows at him.

“Well I can’t exactly leave you soaking, can I?” Martin retorts. “You’re – you’d get water all over my apartment. Dirt is dirt, I can clean that up and you’re too big for my sink – yes, I know I’ve been calling you małym koteczkiem, but you’re not the right kind of małego koteczka – but I need to towel you off.” He sighs. “Too bad I don’t have a heated blanket or something. I think we both might get sick from this.”

Jon takes a small step back.

“Look, I’ll heat up some broth for both of us, I’ll have some tea, and then we’ll go to bed, okay? Well, after showering. And toweling you off.”

//

Jon supposes that being thought to be a cat has a small advantage.

Which is to say, he’s able to strip down to his pants without worrying about Martin’s reaction.

It also comes with a great deal of downsides, including Martin having no compunctions about toweling him down with a determined expression and ruthless intensity. It’s more awkward than anything that has yet happened to Jon, and all he can do is stand stiffly, arms held slightly away from his sides as Martin rubs down his limbs, keeping up a steady chatter.

“Did you know, my first babcia died when I was young?” Martin says as he returns his attention to Jon’s hair for the third time. “Her sister stepped up, I suppose. My dziadek didn’t take it well, and her children were pretty shaken up, too. I don’t really remember her – she tried to give me a rosary when I was little, I think, and she’d always give me tea.” Martin laughs. “I’d guess that’s where I got it from. But yeah, she died. I don’t know what of. And then her sister stepped in, and now I call her babcia because she’s basically one. Does everything a proper babcia does. And I don’t really remember my other babcia, of course. She and my dziadek aren’t married, though. Not in a relationship. He never got over my first babcia, and she’s not interested. She’s like a live-in caretaker, I guess.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, voice somehow more awkward than the present situation of standing in his pants in front of a mostly clothed, thoroughly drenched Martin, who is presently trying to mop the water from the floor with the rather sodden towel.

“I wish I could’ve done that for mum. Well, I wish she’d have accepted it.” Martin sighs. “Is what it is, I guess.” He wrings the towel out above the shower drain, and turns back to Jon. “Warm broth when I’m done showering,” he promises, making shooing motions at Jon. “But I don’t need company showering.”

Jon needs no more prompting.

“Don’t curl up on my bed!”

//

(They go to bed early. Jon can’t bring himself to keep professional distance between himself and Martin, not when he is still freezing and chilled and Martin is warm. He clings to Martin from the moment Martin lays down, and Martin clings to him.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fifi is a mobility assistance dog. german shepherd because i saw a picture on wikipedia of a german shepherd acting as a mobility assistance dog.
> 
> but yeah, the "my dead babcia is rolling in her grave" and then the "my living babcia is calling me" was irritating me, since martin's father is Not Polish. this is what happens when you don't plan ahead, kids. i probably could have just made them lesbians, but i didn't. they're sisters, yall


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim's nearly reached a new Twitter follower milestone. 
> 
> Elias appears.
> 
> Jon nearly gets dresscoded.
> 
> Sasha gets hit in the face. 
> 
> Martin frets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the Plot thickens...  
> also hi yes i am here with more Shenanigans

“Alright, I know we kind of forgot to stop on the way home,” Martin says as he bustles around the kitchen, elbow deep in soapy water as he finishes washing dishes that they had left piled in the sink the night before, “which I’ll do after work today, but while I’m gone, you still can’t sleep on my books.”

“Martin, I assure you, that will not be an issue,” Jon replies, sniffling slightly. He was still cold from last night – of course, his clothes are still thoroughly wet, so he’s reduced to borrowing an outfit from Martin’s closet. He’s practically drowning in the sweater alone, warm though it is. “Considering I will be taking advantage of that time to get things from my own apartment.”

“I know you’re bored,” Martin continues, “but really, Jon, I might not have read those yet, that doesn’t mean I’m fine with you using them as pillows.”

Jon sighs, and runs his hand through his hair again. Or rather, he tries to, but is stopped a scant few inches from his scalp by the massive snarl his hair had become over the course of the night. Maybe he ought to get olive oil to use while his usual hair oil shipped. He could also take the time to get something with a bit more flavor and heat, perhaps tabasco sauce or sriracha or –

Jon quickly cuts off that train of thought. He shouldn’t get his hopes up, not when he’s not sure if a cat could even get into the store, let alone purchase groceries.

(He’s also had to borrow a pair of Martin’s socks, and really, if Jon wasn’t already vividly aware of how small he is, this would drive the point home, considering how the socks keep on pooling around his ankles.)

“I don’t need to stop and get groceries, so I won’t be gone long, but _please_ behave,” Martin finishes, drying his hands and turning to face Jon.

“It’s not like I’ve been tearing your flat apart,” Jon points out, voice becoming habitually acerbic.

Martin raises an eyebrow at Jon. “Don’t you take that tone with me.”

Jon sighs. “You are right, I suppose. I apologize. It was – uncalled for.”

There’s a brief moment of silence, Martin looking disapprovingly at Jon, Jon looking tiredly at Martin. But it’s Martin who breaks the tableau, turning to the counter and grabbing his keys. The rain had let up some, but – well, Jon isn’t exactly looking forwards to making a rainy commute in a sweater and joggers. He’d smell like wet wool.

And then Martin grabs an umbrella, and Jon feels an _immense_ gratitude.

//

“Are those files from our arcatvist or Elias?” Tim asks as he ambles in, cardboard cup of hot chocolate in hand.

“Jon, I think,” Martin says. “They’ve been out a couple days, haven’t they? Mine has.”

Tim shrugs, stopping to interrupt Jon’s furious grooming and scratch between Jon’s shoulderblades. “Guess so. Been a bit occupied, though,” he points out, setting his cup down and stretching until his back cracked loudly.

“Tinder’s been working for you, then?”

“I’ve nearly beaten my score in Temple Run,” Tim corrects, sitting and absently flicking through the file. “Hey, this one doesn’t look too bad.”

“Mine recorded just fine,” Martin says. Which is truly a relief, considering the – considering how – well.

Considering Martin’s felt like he’s being watched, ever since he first opened that file.

“Lucky.” Tim stares blankly at his computer as it blinks on, prompts him for his password. “Are Fifi and what’s-her-name coming back today?”

Martin frowns at his own screen. “Not that I know of, why?”

“I dunno, just thought that Jon might be prepping for a date or something.”

Jon freezes. Slowly, deliberately, he puts his paw down. Shakes himself. Stares directly at Tim with murder in his eyes.

Tim huffs a laugh. “What are you going to do? Eat my papers? Knock over my tea?” he asks, shaking his head.

“Tim, be nice,” Martin says, turning with a small frown on his face. “He’s just a cat.”

“Martin, he’s pulled files for us multiple times,” Tim points out, smiling as he opens the statement folder. “Also, I didn’t list anything that a cat wouldn’t do.”

Jon returns with his grooming with an air of disgust, dragging his paw roughly over his fur.

“Should we get a cat brush?” Martin asks after another moment of staring blankly at Jon.

Tim shrugs. “I’m not going to brush him. Cats don’t need brushing, I think.”

“He’s just been doing this ever since we got here.” Martin gnawed anxiously on his lower lip.

“After he went off to roll in whatever cinnamon and bergamot thing that makes him smell nice?”

“Well, yes…”

“Look, if you want to get a cat brush, go ahead. You’re his favorite, after all.”

Jon meows, jumps off the armchair, and pointedly walks out of the room.

“…I don’t think he wants you to get a cat brush.”

“Shut up, Tim.”

//

“This is hardly the most mature response,” Elias says conversationally as he lets himself in to Jon’s office without knocking.

Jon looks up with a scowl, yanking the collar of Martin’s sweater up in a futile attempt to stop it from sliding off his shoulder. “Elias. Do you know where the Leitner has gone?”

“Artefact Storage, perhaps?”

Jon huffs. “Perhaps. Why did you assign so many cases? I prefer all three to work together on one case.”

“I thought they could use a burst of productivity,” Elias says mildly. “Besides, they seemed to be quite happy using you for comfort.”

“Well, since I can’t exactly help them do the research myself –” Jon snaps.

Elias raises an eyebrow. “I understand that this is a stressful situation, Jon, but that tone is unnecessary.”

Jon flushes, but does not apologize.

“And isn’t your hair in quite the state,” Elias continues. “I trust I don’t need to remind you about the dress code, Jon? You’re hardly in compliance.”

Jon doesn’t bother looking down at himself, doesn’t bother acknowledging the oversized joggers cinched tightly around his waist and ankles and still spilling down to cover his feet until his toes were barely visible, the yellow sweater with sleeves that covered his fingertips with inches to spare and a collar big enough that his options were “reveal half of his chest” or “reveal one shoulder,” the shoes discarded under that half-broken ugly mess of an armchair in the main room. The utter mess that his hair remains, despite his efforts with hair oil and comb.

“Are you going to dress code a cat?” Jon asks dryly.

“Perhaps I shall bring it up in your next performance review. I must say, though, you maintain a work ethic that I find quite impressive, considering your… predicament.”

Jon glowers.

Elias smiles pleasantly. “I would check Artefact Storage for the Leitner,” he repeats. “Good luck, Jon.”

And he leaves.

And Jon plants his head on his desk, face down, in utter despair. The bell on the (his?) collar jingles slightly.

But Artefact Storage… there’s an idea. An idea for tomorrow morning, while Martin is busy making tea, and can't stop Jon.

//

“Jon,” Sasha calls, voice singsong. “Where are you?”

“Try calling for him in Polish,” Tim suggests. “Works for Martin.”

“I – would you –” Martin sighs. “Leave off.”

Tim’s grin widens. Sasha ignores their antics, pulling her phone out and turning up her music.

“Jon, lunchtime,” Sasha continues, ambling around the room, patting down Jon’s blanket.

“Maybe he’s broken into the Archivist’s office?” Tim suggests. Sasha turns and frowns at him.

“If you want to be helpful, get up and help me look.”

“No, I’m good.” Tim holds up his phone. “Nearly beat my score.”

“You’re on Twitter, Tim.”

Martin huffs a small laugh.

“Why don’t you heat up his food? Maybe the smell will get his attention.”

“ _Tim_ ,” Sasha says, exasperated.

Jon takes that moment to walk in, pace purposeful, eyes locked on the door to Artefact Storage.

Sasha’s the first to react, diving in Jon’s direction and scooping him up into her arms, twirling playfully and making a silly face at Jon. “There you are!” she says, bouncing Jon slightly to adjust his position in her arms.

Jon gives the ceiling a long-suffering look.

“Lunchtime,” Sasha continues, walking for the breakroom without looking up from Jon. “Aww, did your fur get all tangled yesterday? We’ll get you a brush for tomorrow, see if we can help. And if not, I suppose we can try and cut out the worst of the matts.”

Jon’s long-suffering look turns terrified as he turns to look at Sasha.

Then he flails violently, hitting Sasha squarely on the nose once, twice, and she drops him in shock.

Jon promptly sprints back down the hallway, deeper into the Archives, as Sasha’s hand comes up to her nose and Tim cackles.

“…Well, I guess we can just set his food out and let him eat on his own time,” Sasha says after a moment, satisfied that there are no scratches on either her face or her glasses.

//

Come five, when Tim and Sasha start packing up to leave, Jon still hasn’t emerged. His food is untouched and thoroughly cold, and Martin is beginning to worry.

“Do you think he got lost?” He asks, gnawing gently on the end of his pen.

Tim shrugs. “Maybe he’s chasing dust,” he offers.

“The Archives get really cold,” Martin frets.

“He has fur,” Sasha says, pulling on her coat. “He’ll be fine.”

“He could’ve gotten into something, though?”

“Martin, I think our weird archivist cat is fine,” Sasha says, not unkindly. “He probably fell asleep on something.”

Martin sighs. “I – you’re probably right,” he admits.

“Of course I am,” Sasha says. “And if you can’t find him, it’s not like he’ll be left alone all weekend. It’s just Thursday.” She gives Martin a comforting smile. “He’ll be fine. Drinks tomorrow?”

“I – yeah.” Martin nods. “Yeah, I’ll meet you after I’ve taken Jon home.”

“Okay now,” Tim interjects, looking from Sasha to Martin and back. “He’s an office cat.”

“I’m not leaving him alone all weekend, Tim—”

“I’m not saying you should, Martin, _but_. I feel like this is a shared custody situation, yeah?”

Sasha raises her eyebrows at Tim. “You want him this weekend?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say _no_ to taking him this weekend,” Tim says, smiling charmingly at Martin. “Besides, I can get him out of your hair for a couple days. Feed him some spicy food.”

“Capsaicin is bad for cats,” Martin says automatically.

“Look, we fed him spicy teriyaki and he didn’t die or anything, I’m just saying. Having him for a weekend wouldn’t be the worst thing, y’know?”

//

Jon hears Martin before he sees him.

Which, considering the maze of the deeper parts of the Archives, that isn’t exactly _difficult_. He hears the door creak open, hears Martin’s footsteps (surprisingly light for a man his size, careful and quiet), footsteps that draw closer and closer.

Jon doesn’t look up from the files spread around him, though. He’s gathered up eight different ones that in some way correspond with the file and Leitner that put him in this situation, eight files that are presently spread out around him. One in particular was given in 1941, which is… far from surprising, considering how some Leitners behave, but grim nonetheless.

Three cases have follow-up notes saying that staff had to chase a stray cat out of the institute. One mentions a researcher who insisted that a scrawny cat sitting on a table was, in fact, a young man – that researcher was soon transferred down to the Archives, which is something that Jon doesn’t want to think too much about.

Jon hears Martin draw closer and closer, and quickly pulls out the pen that had been keeping his hair in a bun, quickly scrawls case numbers on his arm. Martin will probably just stack the files somewhere and leave them be, but considering the Leitner has gone missing, Jon doesn’t want to take chances with these statements.

“Jon!”

Jon does not jump. He does not flinch at Martin’s voice or the sudden presence of a big man behind him. To claim that he did, that he was briefly frightened, would be an utter lie. Clearly.

“There you are,” Martin continues, scooping Jon up. “Is this what you do when you wander off? You do your own little research?”

“No, I usually take a nap on top of the radiator,” Jon says dryly.

“Come on, you missed lunch. You – I guess you can come back to this tomorrow, okay?

“Do I have a choice?”

Martin doesn’t respond, instead carting Jon off back through the Archives until they reach the breakroom, where there is indeed a plate of twice-reheated food that would provide an excellent meal for an actual cat.

The bland smell made Jon want to gag.

Martin deposits Jon on a chair, which Jon nearly falls off of before regaining his balance and righting himself.

“Just another hour or so,” Martin says, pushing the plate towards Jon, “and then we can go home. I need to go to the store, so you’ll be alone for a bit, okay?”

“I assure you, that is perfectly fine, as I will be going to my own apartment to gather things I need. Like clothes.” Jon clears his throat. “I do apologize for stealing your clothes today, Martin. It’s not exactly appropriate, but mine were still quite wet, and I would argue that my stealing your clothes is thoroughly outweighed by you thinking I am a cat and treating me as such.”

“Do you have a designated amount of speech per day?” Martin asks, sitting across from Jon. “Have to get through it all before you go to sleep?”

Jon sighs, and buries his head in his hands. At least he managed to finally detangle his hair.

//

“Alright, I have food and cat toys!” Martin announces, shutting the flat door with his foot. “Well, the food’s for me, so I guess it isn’t that exciting.”

Jon resists the urge to pull the throw blanket up over his head.

Martin comes around the couch, comically overstuffed bag in hand, and crouches in front of Jon. “I got some stuffed mice,” he says, pulling them out of the bag as he speaks, “a bell toy,” which is essentially just some feathers tied to a bell, “and a stuffed animal. It’s big enough for you to cuddle with, so…”

The stuffed animal is roughly the size of Jon’s torso, and clearly was what took up the majority of the bag. It’s a thoroughly stylized bee, with a somewhat flat base and domed head.

Martin smiles at Jon as he holds the bee out. “Can’t put this in bed, but I thought it’d be nice on the weekends.”

It’s soft, at least. And -- surprisingly comfortable, so Jon supposes that Martin is right.

“Anyway, come on.” Martin tucks the elephant next to the arm of the couch, and scoops Jon up. “You’ve basically had dinner and I got something while I was out. Bedtime for us, koteczku.”

Jon sighs, but curls up into the warmth of Martin’s soft chest nonetheless. It isn’t exactly _ideal_ , but Jon has to admit that he has yet to be chilled during this delusion. Rainstorm aside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jon's Vibing
> 
> also martin definitely got jon a squishmallow, as those are amazing and i highly recommend them. 
> 
> fun fact though, cutting someone's hair without their permission is (in the states) considered assault with a deadly weapon. so don't do that.


	14. Day 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The assistants realize that they never actually got a litter box.
> 
> Jon is blatant in his research.
> 
> Sasha is the only functional one. 
> 
> Tim drinks coconut milk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dubcon bed sharing, due to one character thinking the other is a cat, and the first character mentioned in this statement being different than the initial character discussed in the first such warning.

“Okay, here me out –” Tim stops dead in his tracks, staring at the mess of files spread out in front of the armchair. “Is that – is he –?”

“Oh, uh.” Martin looks up, shifts awkwardly. “Well, Jon was looking at those files last night, so I thought…”

“He’s a cat, Martin.”

Jon meows irritably, and shifts a paper with his paw.

“He’s a _cat_.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Martin asks.

“…You know what, I think I’m trying to convince him.” Tim pauses as he passes by, leaning down to gently scratch the base of Jon’s neck. “Should we get you a stenographer to write notes?”

Jon meows, leaning down to pick up the corner of a paper between his teeth and flipping it over.

“Oh my god. Has he been doing this all morning?”

“Yeah. I found him outside the Archivist’s office. You know how wide cats can yawn? I think his mouth was open wider, to hold all the statements.”

Tim sits, stares at Martin. “He’s been carrying statements in his mouth?”

Jon meows sharply.

“Yeah, yeah. I hear you, little feline slavedriver.” Tim sighs, tapping his keyboard to wake his computer and opening his file with one hand. “Anyway. Martin.”

“Yes?” Martin looks at Tim, rather apprehensive.

“So, about this weekend.”

“Tim, I really don’t think –”

“No, no, hear me out.” Tim pushes away from the desk slightly to turn and look fully at Martin. “I think that shared custody works best if he can spend equal time with each person.”

“Are you really implying –”

“You, me, and Sasha are awkwardly divorced and we fought a protracted custody battle over our feline child,” Tim finishes smoothly, grinning at Martin’s flush. “Come on, it’ll be good for him. New stimuli and all that.”

“Do you even have a litter box?”

“Do you?” Tim shoots back.

Comprehension dawns in Martin’s eyes.

“Tim, we don’t have a litter box. I don’t have a litter box.”

Tim stares for a moment. Then turns to stare at Jon. Turns back to Martin. “Okay, you call Sasha and tell her to get something to clean up after pets, and we’ll sweep the Archives for messes. I’m pretty certain I can get a litter box delivered by four or something.”

Jon yowls, loud enough for Tim to flinch slightly. It sounds distinctly offended, in a way Martin usually just sees on Jon’s face.

And Jon continues making irritated meows, interspersed by yowls, and Martin and Tim descend into the Archives.

Jon keeps pace easily, trotting along just behind Martin, the occasional hiss coming along when Martin stops suddenly.

The Archivist’s office is clean. The break room is clean – though really, Martin thinks they would’ve noticed a mess there. But the Archives are rather big, after all.

“—Martin? Tim?” Sasha’s voice echoes distantly, barely audible from the depths of the cluttered stacks of statements, and not helped at all by Jon’s thorough bitching out of Martin and Tim. “I got… and nail… are you?”

Tim makes a shushing sound at Jon. Jon lightly bats him in the shin, and does not look at all apologetic.

“We’re in the stacks!” Tim shouts back, and ignores the second light hit from Jon. “Either we have the weakest cat ever,” Tim says to Martin, “or he’s surprisingly nice about pulling his punches.”

Martin doesn’t respond, turning into another aisle of disorderly and cluttered statements. Some were in messy stacks, some spilling out of boxes, some stuffed inside other statement files, and Martin thinks he sees one sitting under a breadbox – and promptly decides that he hopes that statement is never required, because he truly does not want to know what’s in that box.

“ _Gertrude read romance novels_.” Tim sounds unfairly delighted, considering their present mission, and when Martin turns he sees that the bread box has been opened to reveal eight neatly stacked and luridly painted paperback novels.

“There you are!” Sasha slides past Tim, bag in hand. “Pet spray, nail clippers, cat brush, and scissors for the knots.”

“He’s actually gotten the tangles out –” Martin begins, only to be interrupted by Jon tearing past him and down the aisle. “…I don’t think he wants to be brushed.”

“Well, not brushing him is irresponsible cat ownership,” Sasha points out primly, shifting the bag. “Any luck?”

“Nope.” Tim pops the ‘p’, shrugging. “Maybe he was trained to go in the toilet. God knows he eats like a person.”

Martin glances around, a bit uncomfortable. There’s a distinct feeling of being watched, and he sees no security cameras.

“Well, if that’s the case, then we might as well get to our actual work,” Sasha says. “Come on, boys. We have statements to disprove.”

“Nerd.” Tim negates the intensity in his voice by throwing an arm around Sasha’s shoulder, awkwardly walking out of rows that really aren’t quite wide enough for two people walking side by side. Martin trails after them, still distinctly uncomfortable. And for some reason, chilled.

//

“It’s not like I’m going to hurt him, Martin,” Tim argues, spinning idly in his chair as he fights to catch the rest of his noodles with his chopsticks.

“They gave us forks, Tim,” Sasha says. Her headphones are draped over her shoulders as she pretends not to be watching Tim’s argument with great amusement. Tim blatantly ignores her.

“I don’t have a roommate, I have a kitchen, and I can make him a cat bed from blankets and some pillows or something!”

“…I’ve actually been letting him sleep in bed with me,” Martin says, not quite mumbling but certainly embarrassed.

“Even better! I have a soft mattress! Perfect for a cat!”

“Those are bad for your back,” Martin says on reflex.

“Depends on the back, actually. Helps my posture.”

Sasha looks pointedly at Tim’s present slouch, and again, Tim blatantly ignores her.

“And I can cook for him!”

“Tim, spicy food is bad for cats.”

Jon lets out an emphatic yowl.

“Do you think he’s agreeing with me or you?” Tim asks, clicking his tongue and grabbing the last piece of chicken to wave at Jon. “Because where I’m sitting, it seems like he’s agreeing with me.”

“Well, it’s not like toddlers know what’s good for them,” Martin says.

“I really don’t think our little arcatvist –” Sasha groans, and Tim grins, “—is at the same level as a toddler. Look at those files! That is definitely the mark of a cat who got a masters or something.”

“Tim…”

“Martin,” Tim mimics, waving the chicken again and grinning when Jon reluctantly leaves the files to pad over toward Tim’s chair. “Come on, Martin. If I can’t handle him, I’ll call you. Besides, it’s just two days.” He grins as Jon carefully takes the chicken, eating it in one bite. “Maybe I can get him to eat more. He’s still skin and bones.”

“And fur,” Sasha adds. “I watched some grooming videos last night, I could give him a haircut.”

Jon swallows delicately, and screeches at Sasha.

“Provided one of you holds him down, of course.”

//

“He’s taken to stealing my books and using them as pillows,” Martin says, looking over at Tim and Jon as he ties his scarf. “And watch for him underfoot. He’s quiet.”

“He’s a cat, Martin,” Tim says, digging his hands into the fur at the base of Jon’s neck.

Martin wrings his hands, but he stays away from where Jon is sitting carefully in Tim’s lap. “And he gets bored easily, I think.”

“No worries, I think I can get some yarn for him to play with.”

“ _Martin_.” Sasha links her arm with Martin’s. “Come on, we don’t want the place to fill up before we get there.”

“Yeah, Martin.” Tim smiles reassuringly. “I got him. I’m not gonna take him on a crowded train. I’m not gonna feed him coffee.”

Jon meows disgustedly.

“Oh, do you like tea?” Tim asks, looking down at Jon for a moment.

“I think tea is bad for cats. And so is milk.”

“Martin, we’ll be _fine_.”

Sasha gives up, opening the door with one hand and unceremoniously dragging Martin towards the stairs. “Come on. I hear beer calling my name.”

The door swings shut on Martin’s worried face, and Tim looks down at Jon.

“So, if you get bored. Podcasts? TV? I’m not letting you read my books, no matter what you may do with files.”

Jon twists to look up at Tim, and Tim is willing to swear on God, Jesus, _and_ the Holy Spirit that if Jon was able, he’d be raising an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Podcasts it is,” Tim says cheerfully. “Now, since we’ve got an hour or so before we can leave, how about I introduce you to _The Adventure Zone_?”

Jon sighs, and shifts enough that he can rest his head, face down, on his paws.

“Don’t give me that, it’s funny!”

Jon’s _mrowed_ response is muffled by the material of Tim’s trousers, but Tim just grins as he turns up the volume of his computer and pulls of the first episode.

//

Tim’s flat is clean, at least.

Stubbornly so, in Jon’s opinion. His kitchen is impeccable, throw blankets are neatly arranged over the couch and chair, and Jon’s fairly certain he could eat off of Tim’s counter without fear.

“Alright,” Tim says cheerfully, shucking his coat and hanging it up. “Let’s see. Something with tabasco sauce, I think.”

“Thank god,” Jon says, quite genuinely, as Tim wanders into the kitchen and he takes his own coat off. “I can’t call Martin’s cooking unappetizing, but I don’t think he used the paprika in his cabinet in multiple years.”

“Perhaps not tabasco sauce,” Tim says, opening a cabinet and pulling out a skillet. “Chili takes a while to cook, after all. How about I put that on tomorrow morning, and we have something else tonight?”

“So long as it has more flavor than chicken soup, I honestly don’t care.”

“Curry?” Tim suggests. “I can make that nice and spicy.”

“That sounds quite good,” Jon says, moving deeper into the apartment and sitting down at Tim’s table. “I apologize for not helping. I – well, I don’t exactly think I need to explain why.”

“Now, I don’t exactly think you can snitch,” Tim says, opening his fridge and pulling out a variety of things that Jon can’t quite see, “but if Martin ever finds out I gave you milk, he’ll look at me with those sad eyes and I won’t be able to live with myself. So.” Tim turns, container of something milky and opaque in hand.

Jon sincerely hopes it isn’t kefir, as that would quite ruin Tim's dairy-free plan.

“How about coconut milk?” Tim grabs a glass and small bowl from a cupboard, ambling over to the table and sitting down across from Jon. “Nice glass to drink, and then I’ll get started on dinner.”

“I’ve never actually had coconut milk,” Jon says idly. “I smelled of coconut for three months when I was little and my grandmother thought coconut oil would be good for my hair, but I’ve never drank the stuff.”

“You’re a really spoiled cat, you know?”

“Believe me, Tim, I’ve been trying to keep track of how much Martin has spent on groceries for me so that I can pay him back.”

“Nice homecooked food for you, coconut milk…” Tim slides the mostly full bowl over to Jon, and Jon sighs. This will be interesting. “But hey, it gives me an excuse to cook instead of order out. Maybe that’s why Martin was so stubborn. Maybe he wanted to have a reason to actually cook. You know, I usually see him bring in sandwiches for lunch.” Tim leans forward. “I saw him bring in a thermos of ramen. Instant ramen. Believe me, I know instant ramen when I smell it. Don’t know why he didn’t just bring the package in and make it in the break room, but hey. None of my business.”

“Then why are you telling me?” Jon retorts – then sighs. “I apologize. That was uncalled for, especially considering you are presently giving me food and lodging free of charge.”

Tim laughs, ruffling Jon’s hair. “I know, you’re hungry.” He drains his glass with the practiced ease of somebody used to drinking competition, and stands. “Spicy curry, coming right up. Served with a side of coconut milk, in case you can’t handle it.”

Jon stares down at the bowl of coconut milk. Drinking from it is going to be… awkward, at best.

And then Tim decides to turn on the second episode of _The Adventure Zone._ Jon just sighs.

//

“Now, not sure how Martin sleeps, but I sleep like the dead,” Tim says cheerfully, scooping Jon up from the couch and ambling towards a door left slightly ajar. “Once I’m out, I’m not moving. So you better get settled before I fall asleep, or you’ll be stuck.”

Tim’s room is just as clean as the rest of his apartment – bed neatly made, floor swept, no laundry baskets in sight. Jon even feels slightly guilty about creasing the sheets when Tim deposits him on the bed.

“So, I’m gonna brush my teeth. Wash my face. All that weird stuff us humans have to do before bed, y’know?”

“I do, as a matter of fact, and I quite miss the ease with which you can do so,” Jon says.

“Don’t hog the pillows, don’t hog the blankets. Do you sleep under the blankets?”

“Yes.”

Tim shrugs. “Eh, I’ll find out.” He still tugs a corner of the blankets loose, giving Jon ease access. “Be right back.”

Jon waits until Tim leaves to strip. He still has a sense of modesty, after all. Not much of one, especially not after wearing Martin’s clothes to work, but a small bit.

The neatness of Tim’s room proves rather problematic, though. No half-finished laundry basket to hide his clothes in. And the dresser is just as neat.

Jon resorts to folding his clothes, and sliding them under the bed as far as they can go – which isn’t far, because apparently Tim’s organization extends to under-bed storage. But stealing clothes is somewhat easier – Jon finds a thoroughly worn out shirt that was probably once white, and a pair of pajama trousers that are, of course, meant to fit Tim, and therefore are comically oversized on Jon. But the flannel is soft from years of wash, and it’s not like Jon has much of a choice.

The sheets are soft, too. And Tim wasn’t lying about his mattress; Jon lays down and practically sinks. But it’s comfortable, cozy, despite the fact that there are only two blankets above the sheets.

“You do sleep under the blankets!” Tim sounds rather delighted as he closes and locks the door, tosses his dirty clothes into a hamper and turns on a bedside lamp that is practically as bright as the ceiling light. “My god, you’re practically a person in a cat’s skin, aren’t you?”

Jon does not dignify that with a response.

“Fair enough,” Tim says, turning the lights off and climbing into bed.

The moment he lays down, Jon understands why there are only two blankets. Tim is _warm_ , warm in a way that’s all-encompassing and comforting and solid, and when he curls an arm around Jon’s waist, the warmth only envelops Jon further.

“Goodnight, Jon.” Tim, if Jon guesses correctly, is already half asleep.

That doesn’t mean that Jon doesn’t blush when Tim kisses the back of Jon’s head.

“I suspect I will have quite a bit more to apologize when this ends, but I will apologize now for making you share your bed with me,” Jon says.

“Oh, shut up, I’m trying to sleep.”

“…Noted.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all of the assistants are good cuddlers, you can't convince me otherwise


	15. Day 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A nightmare occurs. 
> 
> Tim's taste in podcasts is discussed. 
> 
> Jon sleeps most of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two warnings:  
> first, unreality. the nightmare has to do with the spiral, and features the usual kind of spiral shenanigans that you see in statements. also has a bit of body horror and mutilation to fingers.   
> second, drug use. jokes are made comparing catnip to pot.   
> i'll put a complete summary of the chapter at the end notes, if either of the above is something you'd rather avoid

There is a door where there should not be a door. It is yellow and gaudy, out of place in the drab walls of grandmother’s flat.

Jon turns, and the walls are painted sky blue. He turns again, and there are no walls, but the door remains.

Jon looks up, sees the ceiling mere inches from his head. He looks down, and there is no floor, but he does not fall.

His hands ache. His skin aches. Jon looks at his hands, at his fingernails, sees bones shift as if made of putty until his hands are paws now, paws with five toes.

_Polydactyl_ , his brain supplies. _Hemingway cat_.

He does not have fur. The coarse hair on his arms does not multiply.

He does not have claws. The first joints on his fingers have been chopped off, roughly, and they still bleed.

The pain reaches his chest, and Jon collapses to his knees, still standing in the middle of thin air, violently retching. Paper and ink spill from his mouth, along with clumps of stained hair that taste like cinnamon and bergamot, long strands of hair that feel on his tongue the same way his hair feels in his fingers.

“Well now.” It is Elias’ voice, and it’s coming from Jon’s mouth. “This is certainly an interesting development, Jon. But it wouldn’t do to have you break so soon.”

Somebody pushes Jon, and he finally falls.

//

Jon wakes quickly.

He wakes cocooned in warmth, an arm wrapped around his waist and a leg thrown over his, his head tucked under someone’s chin.

Jon wakes screaming and shaking, hands shot through with throbbing pain, stomach twisting and churning and burning pain in his throat.

It takes him several moments for his breathing to slow. For Jon to realize that the person behind him is making gentle shushing noises.

“Didn’t know cats have nightmares,” Tim says after a moment.

Jon coughs slightly, blinks away the lightheadedness. “I apologize, Tim, for making you do this – I know we were in research together, but this is still far more than your boss ought to demand from you.”

But Jon doesn’t pull away. No, he brings his hands up to eye level, examines them closely.

His fingertips are a bit inflamed, sensitive to the touch, but there’s no damage. None at all.

“Well, this is enough of a lie-in, I think,” Tim says. He doesn’t sit up, though. “But the best part about weekends is that after you wake up, you can just take another nap. And considering your yowling, I very much would prefer that.”

Jon sighs. He doesn’t think he could fall back asleep, but nor does he shuffle away when Tim curls in closer, closer than Jon’s been with anybody since he and Georgie broke up.

Tim sits up, suddenly, and Jon shudders at the sudden rush of cold.

“You know what,” Tim says, “my phone is charged by now. Let’s at least have something interesting to fall asleep to.”

Jon sighs, digs the heels of his palms into his eyes.

_“Sawbones is a show about medical history, and nothing the hosts say should be taken as medical advice, or opinion…”_

Tim lays back down, wraps his arm around Jon’s waist. “Goodnight, Jon.”

“It’s midmorning.”

Tim pokes Jon in the sternum. “Hush. Sweet dreams and all that. Narrated by an extended rant about fake medicine. How’s that for relaxing?”

Jon pulls the blanket over his head, and Tim laughs.

//

Jon wakes well past noon, and if Tim’s reading Jon right, he’s much calmer. There was no more thrashing over the past couple hours, at least.

Maybe he should feel ridiculous about staying in bed to make sure a cat’s okay, but that’s what Tim did. Shelter animals came with baggage. Easier baggage than the average person came with, but baggage nonetheless.

…and if Martin managed to somehow figure out that Jon had had a nightmare while under Tim’s care, then Tim would definitely lose all rights to Jon’s company, and that would just be unfair.

So Jon wakes slowly, calmly, tattered ears finally twitching as he drags himself to full consciousness, stretches his little cat legs out until they press against the wall.

“Good morning,” Tim says cheerfully. “Well, good afternoon. It’s half three.”

Jon turns to look at Tim so quickly Tim’s own neck twinges in sympathy.

“Yeah, you missed breakfast. And lunch. And I didn’t start chili. _But_ , I have red pepper flakes and I know how to use them.” Tim sits up and stretches slowly, languidly, shapeless hoodie revealing nothing. “So. Let’s make some kind of food that would make Martin cry, yeah?”

Jon seems almost to smile at that, ears twitching towards Tim – but whatever expression Tim is projecting on Jon is quickly ruined by a yawn that transitions from “small yawn” to “wider yawn” to “oh god that’s a lot of fucking teeth” to “mlem”, all within a matter of a few seconds. 

“Do you brush your teeth?” Tim asks, standing and scooping Jon up before Jon can wriggle out of bed and flee. “Because those are very white teeth.”

Jon meows, and yeah, that definitely sounds irritated.

“Hey, it’s a reasonable question. My cousin’s dog had white teeth in the front of her mouth, but the moment you got to the molars…” Tim shudder dramatically, opening the bedroom door with a hand that was still partially supporting Jon’s weight. “Disgusting.”

Jon meows again, wriggling slightly.

“I know what kind of grace you have – which is to say, _none_ – so stop doing that if you don’t want to fall and break something.”

Surprisingly, Jon stops. And he just seems to melt slightly, going limp in Tim’s arms as Tim carries him into the kitchen and puts him down on the floor next to the stove.

“Alright. I promised food that would make Martin cry, yeah?” Tim grins down at Jon. “Normally I’d just make tea badly, but this is a special case. Have you ever had chili peppers in eggs? Jalapenos?”

Jon stretches and yawns again before meowing quietly.

“No? Well, let’s change that.”

Jon shrugs and ambles over to the table, hopping up onto one of the chairs.

“Grooming, eh? You spend more time on your appearance than a teenager does,” Tim teases, pulling out skillet and eggs and milk and peppers.

Jon gives Tim a baleful look, blinking mismatched eyes at him, and calmly licks the pad of his paw and sets to work taming his fur. Mismatched eyes that look different than Tim expects.

Tim frowns, and walks quickly to Jon’s side, egg carton abandoned.

Jon gives him the most intense side-eye Tim’s received since leaving publishing, and leans away slightly.

“Don’t do that,” Tim commands, grabbing Jon’s jaw and turning him to fully face Tim. Yellow eyes and spiralling pupils –

…No. His eyes are just bloodshot. There’s nothing different; one eye is still brown, the other still green. The pinkness in the whites of Jon’s eyes just distorted the color.

And when Tim blinks, Jon’s pupils are back to the classic feline shape. Not spirals.

“You are a very odd cat, you know that?” Tim says, straightening and scratching the top of Jon’s head with two fingers. “Nearly gave me a heart attack. Were you smoking the entire night?”

Jon yowls at him.

“No judgement if you were!” Tim laughs, returning to their soon-to-be dinner. “Just don’t do it inside, okay? Roll up your catnip joints outside, or whatever you smoke.”

Jon yowls again, and Tim just laughs. “Keep that up, and I’ll put on _The Adventure Zone_ again. I know you weren’t exactly impressed with the beginning, but maybe Amnesty will meet your expectations?”

//

Somehow, Jon is still tired. He’s slept most of the day – though he doesn’t count the bizarre nightmare of last night – but he’s still tired.

He nearly falls asleep at the table. His chin is propped on his fist, and then his chin _slips_ , and his face nearly lands squarely on his cleaned plate.

Tim chuckles. “Okay, McElroys aren’t your favorite. How about _Wolf 359_? Or I could always put on _The Archers_.”

Jon groans in pure despair. “Please, _no_. I’d rather your medical history podcast. At least that’s vaguely educational.”

“No? How about _Knitmore Girls_? Never listened myself, but Rosie swears by it.”

Jon scoots his plate out of the way, and finally rests his forehead on the table.

“Okay, look. Let’s do it this way. One meow for option one, two for option two. Okay?”

Jon brings his hand up to give a thumbs up in Tim’s general direction, refusing to move his face from the table.

“Option one: _Wolf 359_. Option two: _Sawbones_.”

“Option two, please,” Jon says, slightly muffled by the table.

“Sawbones it is!” Tim pushes away from the table, stacking Jon’s plate atop his own and ambling into the kitchen. “How about… tobacco?”

“Tim, I haven’t smoked in several months,” Jon protests, lifting his head. “That isn’t necessary –”

“Since you smoked some nice catnip last night, apparently.” Tim grins at Jon, and turns on his phone.

_“Sawbones is a show about medical history, and nothing the hosts says should be taken as medical advice, or opinion…_ ”

Jon sighs. But Tim isn’t looking at him, anymore.

Maybe Tim has a spare toothbrush.

//

“Alright. Hopefully, no nightmare again tonight,” Tim says, unceremoniously dropping Jon onto his bed. Jon’s still in the clothes he stole from Tim the night before, hair completely unbraided because it seems that the secondary purpose of bedding is to steal all of Jon’s hairties. “But if you do, try thrashing. Getting hit in the face usually wakes me up, you know?”

“I believe that’s rather universal, Tim,” Jon says dryly, scooting back towards the wall. “But I appreciate the thought, just as I appreciate the food and lodging you are providing. I also apologize that this is happening.”

Tim climbs in after Jon, bending over and grabbing a stress ball from the floor next to his bed.

Tim throws it.

And it hits the light switch exactly, bouncing to the ground as the lights turn off.

"Good lord, you could have just taken a few steps to turn the lights off!" Jon splutters. 

“Goodnight, Jon.” Tim throws an arm around Jon's waist, and Jon sighs.

"...Goodnight, Tim." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter summary: jon has a nightmare influenced by the spiral, in which he appears to be physically turning into a cat, and sees that the first bones in his fingers (the part from fingertip to closest joint) have all been cut off. he coughs up tape recorder tape and hairballs, and elias appears and pulls him out of the dream. he wakes up and finds that tim has stayed in bed with him as he has this nightmare, even though it's obvious that tim's been awake for some time. later, tim thinks that jon's eyes have changed to yellow irises and spiral pupils, but this vanishes almost immediately.   
> /end summary
> 
> so yeah. a hefty amount of comfort to go with the bit of hurt at the beginning, imo. there'll be more shenanigans next chapter. 
> 
> why do i always hurt characters on the weekends, when it should be their time off


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Podcasts make another appearance.
> 
> Tim makes chili.
> 
> Jon watches a comedy.
> 
> Musings on Jon's general physical composition occur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay this is ENTIRELY brought to you by this amazing fanart https://whereisthecoffeee.tumblr.com/post/615110626459762688  
> jon's exasperation! tim's cheeriness! just! fanart! 
> 
> so anyway, have some shenanigans

Again, Jon wakes late. Not due to nightmares, but simply because he is warm and the mattress is soft and he’s still tired from yesterday.

Tim is still asleep, though, snoring softly and thoroughly wrapped around Jon.

Jon sighs, pressing his face into the pillow in slight despair. There – Tim doesn’t have a finger looped in his collar, thankfully, but Tim’s stronger than Martin and no amount of wriggling will let Jon escape.

He tries, though. And only manages to get his arm within range of Tim’s phone.

Well, it’s not like anything _worse_ can happen.

“ _Last time on The Adventure Zone…_ ”

There are multiple hundreds of episodes of this, but Tim’s phone is locked. So episode three it is.

“ _Up there, you see another goblin, and next to him, you see an unconscious human man._ ”

Jon has not bitten his nails in decades. His grandmother was unimpressed by it, unimpressed by the raw mess it left his fingertips. Jon can see her disapproving look now, as he brings his left hand up to his mouth. He keeps his nails short, partly because long nails are unsanitary, but also because it removes the temptation.

As the introduction to the episode ends and the new episode begins, Jon carefully begins to bite. He starts with his little finger and moves across, confirming with multiple senses that no, his fingertips are not bleeding, and yes, he still _has_ nails. His fingertips hurt as his teeth brush against them, but that’s not much of an issue. He’s burned his hands worse. 

//

“Okay, Jonny, chili time,” Tim says cheerfully, plopping Jon down at the table and wandering into the kitchen. “Also known as, how much tabasco sauce can I put in without breathing actual fire?”

“More than you think, in my experience,” Jon offers, standing and walking into the kitchen. It’s not like he’ll be able to help, but sitting and being waited upon still feels wrong. “Well, it depends on experience.” 

“I don’t exactly have _beef_ lying around,” Tim says, “or beans -- I know, I know, I’m a fraud -- _but_ I have some ground turkey and canned beans and tomatoes.” 

“I haven’t exactly made chili with canned beans,” Jon says, leaning against the counter, “but wouldn’t that significantly reduce the time it needs to spend cooking?” 

“So chili for lunch, I guess.” 

“Tim, it’s after one.” 

Tim reaches out without looking, and pat in the general direction of Jon’s head. All he succeeded in doing is lightly smacking Jon in the face. 

“Chili for lunch with beans and turkey and peppers,” Tim says, pulling a pot from one cabinet that looks to be barely big enough to hold enough chili for two. 

Well, one and a half, Jon supposes -- they haven’t exactly been giving him full portions. Which makes a certain kind of sense, but still. 

“Scoot over,” Tim says, nudging Jon with his hip. “I need to chop things.” 

Jon complies, moving to lean against the sink, watching keenly as Tim pulls a knife from one drawer and a cutting board from another, as Tim returns to the fridge and pulls out reasonably fresh peppers, an onion, and what appears to be leftover turkey meat.

“You want to know the best way to cut an onion?” 

“Cry?” Jon asks dryly. 

“You don’t peel it beforehand. No, you cut the top off,” Tim does so, “and then you peel it. See?” 

Jon moves further away, holding a hand over his mouth and nose. 

“And now you cut it horizontally from the top down to the base, and then turn it ninety degrees and do the same. And _then_ you start chopping.” Tim’s fast with the knife, quickly reducing the onion to a pile of small chunks smaller than Jon’s bitten-down nail on his little finger. “See?” Tim shifts the cutting board to show Jon. “And now peppers. Best thing about peppers -- they don’t make you cry. Worst thing about peppers -- you have to wash your hand half a dozen times before you can touch your eyes.” 

“That’s my experience, yes,” Jon says, watching keenly as Tim bisects the peppers one by one, scraping seeds out and then reducing them to small chunks as easily as he did the onion. 

“Into the pot with you lot,” Tim sings, scooping up onion and pepper with both hands and tossing it in by the handful. “Don’t turn the heat on until you’ve added the beans,” he tells Jon. “And scoot over again, I have to wash my hands.” 

Jon complies, walking over to stand next to the stove. 

“Take the beans and rinse them first -- yeah, some people use the juice, but my family never did --” Tim cuts himself off. “Okay, when me and my brother made chili at two in the morning because we’d crammed homework and were hungry, we always drained the juice. That’s what the canned tomato sauce is for, okay? That’s where you get the liquid.” He pauses, hands stuck under a stream of slightly steaming water that makes Jon begin to worry. “Well, keep a bit of the juice. You don’t exactly want to eat tomato soup with some beans added in, you know?” 

“I can’t say I do, as I’ve never had tomato soup.” 

“Strain the beans, keep some of the water, use powdered garlic because it’s cheap and you’re broke…” Tim continues to narrate his cooking, gesticulating with the wooden spoon he’s using to stir, pausing occasionally to dunk his finger in the soup to taste the seasoning. 

Jon watches closely, takes note of how Tim adds the meat and spices, of what spices he uses. No recipe Jon’s found on the internet has exactly been palatable, to him. And when he snags a small taste when Tim’s back is turned, the chili is most definitely palatable. 

“And now the crowning glory,” Tim says, pulling a half-empty bottle of tabasco sauce from the fridge. “Time to make Martin cry.” 

Jon snorts, but his eyebrows slowly creep up his forehead as Tim adds multiple spoonfuls of sauce. 

“Don’t worry, Jonny, I’ll get you some coconut milk in case it’s too much.” Tim winks at him, grinning.

“Please don’t call me Jonny.” 

“And now, we wait.” Tim taps the spoon against the rim of the pot to knock loose the last drops of chili, rests it on the cutting board, and leans against the counter by the stove. “Normally, I’d make cornbread to go with this, but I don’t have cornmeal, so.” He shrugs. “Cornbreadless chili today. There’s this Mexican place a few streets from the Institute, and I get that most Mexican places are awful and run by a bunch of white people who put random shit in chili that should not be in chili, but this place is owned by a Mexican guy who moved here from Dallas, and who _always_ bitches about the weather. He’s honestly one of my favorites, and his spicy cornbread... Well, him and the Thai woman who runs the Thai restaurant and always puts extra food in Sasha’s order because she’s worried Sasha doesn’t eat enough, but you know how old women are. Great iced coffee, too.” 

“I wouldn’t know,” Jon says. “I -- well, you know how I tend to forget lunch.”

“Don’t suppose I can give you coffee, though, can I?” Tim muses. “I’ll give you chili with vegetables and tabasco sauce, but I think coffee might be a bit much.” He shrugs. “Maybe tea. I’ll try that Monday, when we get in early. Martin’s been getting there, what, six in the morning?”

“Half six, usually,” Jon corrects, glancing over at the chili. The glass lid has begun to steam up, and he can see the chili bubbling. 

“Considering how cold it’s getting, I’m surprised,” Tim continues. “He’s Polish, but _damn_ he bundles up. I think I’ve seen him wear two sweaters under his coat.” He eyes Jon up and down. “Does he just stuff you in his coat? He’s never talked about a cat carrier.” As he speaks, he rinses the cutting board and knife in the sink, turning the water as hot as can be and slathering dish soap onto a sponge. 

Jon freezes, and looks at Tim with wide eyes. “Tim,” he says slowly, quietly. “If you get a cat carrier, I will drag you up to the top of this building and throw you off of the fire escape.” 

“Or he just carries you. I’ll text him.” Tim yawns into his elbow, grabs for a tea towel with one soapy hand. “And while that’s simmering, tea time for me. That way, my tea will be ready after we’re done eating.” 

Jon snorts softly, but still backs away from Tim. _Cat carrier_. This -- this had to end before somebody broke out cat sweaters. Or microchipping. 

“Martin judges me for how I make my tea, I know it,” Tim says, filling the kettle and setting it on the back burner. “Black tea and honey. That’s it. Brew it for ten minutes, then add enough honey to completely change the color. Considering how much milk he takes in his, though, I really don’t think he can judge.” Tim glances over at Jon. “How would you take your tea? You’re grouchy, but maybe you’re one of those people who’ll go to a coffee shop and get a tea latte or something. Never really understood what those are. I figure you’d tip, though.” He rinses the cutting board and knife one last time, before putting them in a drying rack hung above the sink. 

“I prefer Earl Grey taken black,” Jon corrects. “And yes, I try to tip at least half the price of the drink.” 

Tim nods wisely. “I agree, black coffee is awful,” he says solemnly, taking the lid off the chili and giving it a stir. “Well, this looks to be done,” he declares, putting the lid aside and taking down two bowls. “Doubt you can set the table, despite your criminal breaking and entering. So I’ll just deal with this myself.” 

Jon sighs, but obediently walks to the table as Tim takes the pot from the stove and dishes up the chili. 

“One bowl for you,” Tim says, putting a bowl sans spoon in front of Jon, “and one for me.” 

To Jon’s surprise, his bowl is practically full to the brim. That is also to his slight dismay, as that will make eating it significantly more awkward. 

“You’re scrawny enough, I think Martin will have an aneurysm if you lose any more weight,” Tim explains, going back to the fridge and filling up a bowl of coconut milk for Jon. “Coconut milk for the grouchy cat.” 

“I am trying my best,” Jon snaps, pulling his bowl towards himself and hunching over it slightly. It smells _good_ , and he doesn’t want Tim to rethink the portion size. “I’d like to see how you’d respond to this.” 

“Meow meow meow,” Tim says, putting the coconut milk in front of Jon and sitting down across the table from him. “Bone apple teeth, Jon.” 

//

Martin was not lying about Jon’s taste in general entertainment, Tim finds. It’s a bit funny, seeing Jon’s ears twitch irritably and his tail puff up when Tim puts on a comedy podcast, or seeing Jon visibly calm when Tim put on something mostly educational. 

“I’m not putting on something about the news,” Tim says firmly, when an episode of _Sawbones_ ends. “I am not putting on something depressing.” 

Jon meows at him. 

“Okay, look. How about this -- we’ll watch a movie, then have dinner, and then some boring documentary, or something.” 

Jon sighs, and plomps his face into the couch cushion. 

“I don’t care,” Tim says firmly. “I will introduce you to _The Princess Bride_ if it’s the last thing I do.”

Jon’s ears flatten. 

“I’ll swaddle you in blankets if I have to,” Tim continues, standing from the couch and habitually folding the throw he’d been curled up under. “But first. Dinner.” 

Jon meows again. 

“What, do you want more chili? No, I don’t have any more turkey.” Tim stretches, winces at his sore shoulder. He’d pulled something on Thursday -- not enough to go to a doctor, but enough that he’s taking a short break. “Don’t suppose you can sleep on top of me tonight, get some nice pressure and warmth going on?” Tim jokes, ambling towards the kitchen.

Jon does not dignify that with a response. 

“Okay, we have -- not a lot, honestly. I need to go shopping. Eggs?” Tim glances over at the couch, and sees Jon still curled up under his blanket. “You’re not eating on the couch, Jon. That’s only appropriate for ice cream or smoothies, and I don’t think you can eat either.” 

Jon doesn’t respond with anything besides a sad look, so Tim pulls out the carton of eggs and a loaf of bread. 

“Egg in a hole,” he says, taking a skillet from the cabinet above the fridge -- benefits of being tall -- and setting it on the stove. “You need fiber in your diet, right? I don’t know. I haven’t read Martin’s email about cat dietary needs.” 

Tim hears the faint jingling of Jon’s bell. Jon’s probably standing, stretching, ambling towards the kitchen. He enjoys watching Tim cook, interestingly enough. Maybe he secretly runs a food blog.

Wouldn’t be that surprising, honestly. 

But when Tim looks down to see where Jon is, he sees Jon _still covered in the blanket_. 

“Oh my god.” Tim crouches down, stares Jon directly in his mismatched eyes. (Firmly brown and green today. Yesterday must have just been a trick of the light.) “This is adorable. Don’t move.” 

Jon sighs, but stays still as Tim grabs his phone and takes multiple pictures, sending them to Martin and Sasha. 

Sasha responds immediately, with a string of heart and cat emojis. Martin responds with three hearts of different colors. 

“You have just stolen my heart,” Tim announces, standing and checking the skillet. It’s warm enough now; he cuts holes in the center of three pieces of bread, tosses the first one in. “This is it. I’ll never love another. Just you.” 

Jon meows, deadpan. 

“No, I’m serious. Platonic love can be just as all-consuming as romantic love, and you can _bet_ that that’s what’s going on right now.” 

Jon meows again, and Tim hears jingling and the shifting of fabric as Jon pads away. 

“I’m just making you one,” Tim calls. “Not sure if you’re still full from lunch. And I can put something together later if you’re hungry.” 

//

Jon is not full from lunch, but the egg is nice enough that he doesn’t bother nagging for further food.

Not when Tim settles on the couch, drags Jon unceremoniously into his lap, and spreads both throws over them. 

The warmth is the one bright spot of this present hellscape, Jon muses. 

And then Tim turns on _The Princess Bride_ , and Jon flinches as the sudden colors assail his eyes. But Tim’s hand is deep in Jon’s hair, nestled in Jon’s braid, so it’s not like he can escape. 

...it’s not the worst movie Jon’s ever seen, after all. 

//

“I wasn’t joking about you sleeping on top of me,” Tim says, plopping Jon onto the bed. 

Jon scrambles to a sitting position, quickly righting the collar of Tim’s shirt, which had slid down his shoulder. “I really don’t think that would be a good idea, Tim,” he protests, scooting towards the wall. 

“No? You being a spoilsport?” Tim sighs. “Alright then. We’ll see if we can get Martin to guilt you into it tomorrow.” 

Jon burrows into the mattress and blankets, pulling them up until only his eyes are visible. 

Shamelessly, Tim pulls out his phone and takes a picture. “Bedtime,” Tim says as he plugs in his phone. 

The night before, Tim had gotten ready in the bathroom. And Martin always changed clothes in a separate room.

Apparently, Tim is different. 

Jon pulls the blankets fully over his head when Tim takes his shirt off. When this ends, Jon would like to avoid “Watching his direct subordinate strip” from being added to the workplace harassment countersuit. 

“Bedtime bedtime bedtime,” Tim says, and even through the blankets Jon can tell that he’s turned off the lights. “Do you think eight alarms will be enough?” 

“If they’re not, I’ll hopefully wake you up,” Jon says, voice muffled.

“Yeah, I’ll go with ten. Don’t want to be late in getting to work two and a half hours before it starts,” Tim says cheerfully, sliding into bed next to Jon. “Come on, fluffball. Scrawnball? Eh, Martin would probably look like I kicked you across the room if I called you _scrawnball_ in front of him.” He curls around Jon, just as he’d done the past two nights. “Accurate, though. You’re soft, but you’re scrawny.” 

“ _Goodnight_ , Tim.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jon's definitely going to end this with his favorite background noise being three brothers and their dad going off the rails while playing dnd


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon finally gets into Artefact Storage.
> 
> Tim has hot chocolate. 
> 
> Jon reads a bit too much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok shorter chapter but a lot of stuff happens! also light on shenanigans. i'm working on that for the next chapter.

Tim is not the quickest at making tea. Jon’s not sure if it’s due to his habit of checking his phone while the water boils, or general zoning out, but Tim is not the quickest.

It’s something Jon is taking advantage of.

The door to Artefact Storage squeaks awfully, as Jon has rediscovered on one particularly memorable occasion, but the kettle is much louder.

(Getting out of Artefact Storage without being noticed, regardless of whether Jon finds the book or not, will be… a challenge. But, Jon muses, that is a problem to be dealt with later.)

His shoes have been left abandoned in his office to avoid any additional squeaking, socks tucked neatly inside so Jon has better traction. And Jon does not take the same to stare at the door, ready himself, no matter how much dread may be roiling in the pit of his stomach because Artefact Storage has its reputation for a _reason_. 

The lock sticks. The hinges squeal. The door drags. But Jon is through the door and down the stairs without being stopped, which is more than he can say for his previous attempts. Terror wars with triumph and determination, and the latter two win.

It’s early, of course, early enough that none of the lights are on, and Jon hasn’t seen his phone since the day he first discovered the Leitner. The janitorial staff doesn’t exactly work through Artefact Storage every morning, after all. All the better, Jon supposes, fumbling for a lightswitch.

It’s tidy, at least. Several different thick books list their acquisitions, stacked neatly on a desk near the door, solid binders that make quiet thunks when Jon shifts them.

One in particular is conveniently titled “Books.” It’s also alphabetized, and Jon feels like crying in relief.

_Train Your Cat To Be The Best They Can Be!_ is listed, acquired in September of ‘82, by one G. Robinson. Not listed, however, is a general location of said book.

Well, Jon’s not sure what he expected. It’s not like anywhere in the Institute is particularly well organized – besides the IT department, which is run by an exacting young woman who could put a military drill sergeant to shame and is even shorter than Jon.

...Jon takes the book with him into the stacks. Maybe not a good idea, but it’s what he does. Perhaps it’s because the book is a solid weight in his hands that could probably break someone’s jaw. Perhaps it’s because he’s trying to use it to establish some kind of roadmap. Jon decides not to think more on it.

“...Jon? Jon? ...are you?”

Jon freezes.

Tim’s tea must be done.

A few seconds longer, and Jon hears the door to Artefact Storage open, the squeak echoing deep into the stacks.

Jon does not take off at a run. The artefacts are stored in neatly labeled, very secure boxes. If he were to run, then he’d simply be wasting his time. No, his best option is to simply be as quiet as he can.

“Jon?” Tim calls again. “Fifi? Fifi’s owner?”

Jon is very quiet as he continues through the stacks, steps as careful as he passes over the cold floor. There is no particular rhyme or reason to the storage, besides “secure” and “difficult to get to” and often “fire and/or waterproof”. Small objects – or objects that Jon presumes to be small, like an object described as a cast iron needle from the Fertile Crescent that is always stained and smells of old meat – are stored in large boxes. Some boxes have multiple locks. Some have pairs of thick leather gloves hanging on a hook by their label.

Jon turns a corner.

Tim turns the same corner, from the opposite direction.

Jon freezes.

Tim does not.

Tim lunges forward, grabbing the book in one hand and the scruff of Jon’s neck in the other. “Jon! You can’t come down here!”

Jon goes limp as his feet leave the floor – good lord, Tim’s _tall_ – and stares balefully at Tim. “Please explain to me where else I am likely to find a Leitner that has gone mysteriously missing,” he says dryly.

“And if anyone finds out, not only will Artefact Storage kill me –”

“The vast majority of the objects here can probably do that, yes.”

“—but Martin will give me a very pathetic look. And Fifi’s owner will probably try to kill me because you dragged her book around with your teeth.”

“Is that what you saw?” Jon muses, twisting his neck in an attempt to get into a slightly less uncomfortable position.

Tim keeps his nails very short. Presumably, this is to stop them from interfering with various sports or activities Tim does regularly. It also makes holding onto somebody by the back of the neck into a rather difficult activity.

Jon hits the floor, stumbles, winces as his ankle makes its protestations viscerally clear. But he runs, darting past Tim and careening through the racks of storage, Tim hot on his heels.

There’s no chance of outrunning him, Jon knows. But perhaps the older artefacts are stored farther in, in older boxes that are easier to get into.

Jon is not athletic. Tim is. Adrenaline can only get one so far.

And corners cannot be taken quickly. 

Tim grabs Jon by the hair, and Jon is not ashamed at the unholy screech he lets out, flailing as his head jerks and neck pops.

“Sorry, Jon, but you’re not allowed down here,” Tim says as he scoops Jon up into his arms, book tucked awkwardly between Tim’s elbow and side. He does sound genuinely apologetic, even going as far to kiss the top of Jon’s head, but he still heads for the door.

“I am going to pretend that you didn’t just risk breaking my neck,” Jon says coldly, “in favor of leaving you a particularly difficult statement.”

“You can go on adventures in the Archives. Lord knows you’ve already been doing that.” Tim shifts Jon’s weight to drop the book back at the table, awkwardly opens the door with one hand, and returns to the Archives. The door swings shut with a taunting creak and a damning thud.

And Tim just plops Jon on the armchair.

“There you go,” he says cheerfully, brushing his shirt off. “Your usual starting point. Go frolic or research or whatever. Or get us files, since that seems to be your favorite activity.”

It is very, very tempting to swear at Tim.

Jon does not.

(Apparently, Tim made hot chocolate instead of tea. Jon choses to blame that on his early capture, since hot chocolate hardly needs to brew.)

//

“Did you know our little office cat still wants to commit felonies?” Tim says cheerfully as Sasha hangs up her coat.

Sasha pulls one earbud out, turns her music off, and raises an eyebrow.

“He broke into Artefact Storage. Which means he picked the lock, moved a door that weighs more than his armchair, and dragged around a book listing their acquisitions.”

Sasha’s other eyebrow goes up. “Are you kidding? There wasn’t anybody there?”

“Nope. Found him wandering through the stacks dragging a binder with his teeth.”

“Jesus.” Sasha shakes her head, and walks towards her own desk. “Did he give us files, though?”

“Mhm. Good luck – mine is from some bloke who lived the USSR and got shipped to Siberia in the ‘30s.”

Sasha winces sympathetically. “Before or after he moved?”

“Well supposedly, he came into contact with an aquatic monster in Siberia, and then waited thirty years to come talk about it.”

“Oof.”

“Mhm.” Tim sighs, picking up his mug of hot chocolate in a dramatic show of despair. “Truly, whatever will I do.”

“Complain about it while finishing it?” Sasha suggests, opening her own folder. “Seriously, how do you have an aquatic monster in Siberia? Wouldn’t it freeze?”

“Well, that’s how the assistant translated it. I don’t exactly speak Russian, now do I?”

“You could always try Duolingo,” Sasha teases. “Where is Jon, by the way? Off sulking?”

Tim shrugs, makes a vague _I don’t know_ sound into his hot chocolate. “He’ll turn up.”

//

The statement numbers are still vivid in Jon’s mind. Four statements that are genuinely relevant, three more to cross reference with the initial four. They haven’t been exactly forthcoming in how – or if, but that’s an unpleasant thought that Jon discards – the victims broke the Leitner’s illusion.

Jon looks from open file to open file, and sighs.

His scalp still aches – Jon’s legitimately quite lucky he hadn’t showered and braided his hair before descending into Artefact Storage, as Tim could have quite easily broken Jon’s neck by yanking on a braid that hard. And of course, his neck is hardly happy with him either, and his ankle throbs from being dropped.

The files are not long. Nor is there anything new. One assistant swearing that the cat in front of them is, in fact, a man. Another assistant chasing a stray cat out of the Institute and finding a neatly written statement three months later – a statement found three days after the statement giver’s obituary was printed.

So that’s one way to break the illusion that Jon is most definitely going to _avoid_. His assistants haven’t acknowledged the notes he’s been taking, even when he wrote them whilst sitting on the floor in their general company, _nor_ has Sasha asked about her missing notebook.

Jon will replace it later.

After this is solved.

…or perhaps in a few days, depending on Amazon’s projected delivery.

His eyes ache as they flick from statement to statement, his hand is already cramping after only two pages of notes, and his fingertips ache whenever they brush against the pages. Or anything, really. 

Perhaps a few minutes wouldn’t hurt. To rest his eyes.

//

“Do cats usually eat on their own schedules?” Sasha asks, brushing the crumbs from her sandwich off the front of her dress. “Because Jon’s not been eating with us the last few days.”

“One way to find out,” Tim says cheerfully, tabbing over to Google and typing quickly. “…uh, yeah, they usually just fuck off –”

“Tim!” Martin yelps.

“Oh, calm down, it’s not like we have a boss to get in trouble with.” Tim shrugs. “But yeah, they usually just go off and do their own thing. And then come scream at you when they want something, apparently.”

“Huh.” Sasha stands, and shakes out her skirt. It’s light pink, floral, and very anachronistic for a London winter.

“So I guess his idea of a good time has been sleeping all day in the armchair,” Tim finishes, closing the tab. “Okay. Lazy cat.”

//

Jon does not dream, thankfully. The aching pain doesn’t stop as he sleeps, but he does not dream.

//

“Okay! Who gets him tonight?” Tim looks from Sasha to Martin and back again. “Whoever finds him first?”

“I’m not going on a wild hunt in poorly lit archives for a dark hunt,” Sasha says firmly. “Not in these shoes.”

“Sasha, those are Doc Martens.”

“Yes, and I just cleaned them.”

“Sasha, it’s _winter_.”

Sasha sniffs imperiously. “I fail to see how that’s relevant.”

Tim looks at Martin, and shrugs. “Fair. See you tomorrow, then.”

Sasha laughs, and goes directly for her coat and scarf.

“So! Martin. Down to you and me.” Tim raises his eyebrows. “We could flip a coin. Do you have dice we could roll?”

Martin sighs. “How about we _find_ him first?”

“Touché.” Tim promptly picks up a corner of the armchair, and peers underneath.

“ _Tim._ ”

“I know, I know.”

//

“He’s just asleep?” Tim looks down at the cat in question, presently slumped against a wall and curled in on itself slightly.

“Looks like it.” Martin gently prods Jon in the side, and only succeeds in knocking Jon over.

“Well then. Whoever manages to pick him up gets him tonight?”

Martin sighs. “Alright, Tim.”

(Jon goes home with Martin. Martin gets home, places him on top of the stuffed animal, and Jon doesn't stir. Nor does he stir when Martin moves him to bed. 

Nor when Martin wakes up the next morning.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sasha does not give a single fuck about seasonally appropriate clothes. she has fleece lined tights for a reason, tim. and also three pairs of wool socks to avoid blisters. (fun fact, i bought a pair of doc martens that are actually a size too big because i tried them on while wearing two pairs of thick socks, and then didn't realize this for two years)
> 
> edit: ok i didn't explain well -- tim's basically picking jon up by the back of the neck, not like. his hair. you know how you can grab a cat or dog when they're being aggressive by the back of the neck, or how a cat carries a kitten? that's what tim thinks he's doing.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim gets dresscoded and lies through his teeth. 
> 
> The nail clippers make an appearance.
> 
> Martin googles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for mention of declawing in section two. i'm gonna put a summary of the plot points in this chapter in the end notes.
> 
> assistant shenanigans!

When Tim gets to the Archives, Jon is curled up in the armchair under the throw, and Martin is doing his best to pretend he isn’t glancing over at Jon every few seconds, worry clear on his face.

“What’s wrong with the boy?” Tim asks, stopping by the armchair and peering down at Jon.

“He hasn’t moved at all,” Martin says, picking up his mug of tea. He doesn’t take a sip. “He hasn’t moved since yesterday.”

“...Huh. Well, he got into Artefact Storage yesterday, maybe that tired him out?”

“He what?” Martin yelps, putting his tea down with enough force that it threatens to slosh out of the mug and all over his desk. “When?”

“After we got here in the morning.” Tim shrugs, mouth twisting into an awkward little pseudo-grimace. “I chased him down, and he didn’t get into anything, but we ran around for a solid ten minutes.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Martin demands, voice rising slightly – and then he flushes, tucks his hands into his lap, and mumbles an apology.

“Well, he seemed fine, and I didn’t want this –” Tim waves between himself and Martin “— to happen. He got us files, and then went off to sulk!”

Martin stares at Tim for a moment. Then, “Maybe we should take him to the vet? I read that cats are prone to dehydration.”

“Aren’t we all,” Tim deadpans – though he hasn’t moved from his position beside the armchair.

“Really, Tim,” Martin insists, “worse than people. Did you give him anything you shouldn’t have? I sent you an email –”

“I know, I know,” Tim sighs. “No, I didn’t give him anything he hasn’t already shown he can handle.”

Martin narrows his eyes. “What did you give him?”

“Tomatoes, beans, chicken, egg, peppers,” Tim lists off. “Coconut milk, since you said cats are lactose intolerant.”

“Coconut milk?” Martin raises his eyebrows, incredulous.

“Well, I thought he could use a treat! Look it up, I don’t think it would’ve done this.” Tim gestures sharply at Jon.

And Martin does.

“...well, it’s not good for him to have a lot of it,” Martin admits, “but no, it doesn’t harm them unless they’re allergic.”

“And this isn’t exactly the picture of allergies, now is it?” Tim lightly pokes at Jon’s side, tugs on one of his tattered ears. “This is just, well. Generally weird. Maybe he’s a teenager?”

“The shelter said he’s an adult,” Martin says, shaking his head. “I guess we should just wait and see what happens? Take him to the vet tomorrow if nothing changes?”

“Good luck getting Elias to let you leave early for a vet appointment,” Tim says, more than slightly bitter.

“Did he dress code you again?” Martin asks, returning his eyes to his computer.

“Look, nowhere in the code does it say you have to wear black socks!” Tim finally breaks away from the chair, walking to his desk and the mostly finished statement sitting there, waiting to be debunked. “Just because my socks are colorful –”

Martin doesn’t comment that Tim’s socks are neon, not just colorful.

“—doesn’t mean he needs to stop me and scold me for it!”

Martin glances once more at Jon, curled up in the chair, breathing evenly, eyes firmly closed.

//

“Maybe we should rename him Sleeping Beauty,” Sasha says, carefully tucking her skirt around her legs and propping her feet up on the edge of her desk as she sips at her coffee. “Though I suppose he needs to be a bit prettier.”

“Don’t be mean!” Martin looks almost scandalized as he turns to look at Sasha, eyes wide and slightly hurt.

Sasha just laughs, grinning widely as she twirls her fork in her hand. “I’m just saying, he’s not the prettiest cat. I still have scissors and nail clippers.”

“Might be a good idea,” Tim says thoughtfully. “Since he’s not moved at all.”

“I just – Sasha isn’t a cat groomer,” Martin points out, carefully spinning his mug in circles. “He’s not going to get any prettier.”

“Nails, then,” Sasha says. “We’re not declawing him, that’s awful. But cutting his nails might be a good idea.”

Martin… Martin has no argument against that. Jon hasn’t swiped at any of them – not with claws out, at least – but long claws are probably a hazard. And Jon’s sleeping deep enough.

He doesn’t protest when Sasha puts her food aside, pulls the pet nail clippers from her desk, and advances on Jon.

“Don’t wake up,” she croons at him, carefully extricating one of Jon’s paws from the blanket and gently squeezing it. “Don’t wake up, don’t wake up – oh.” Sasha squeezes the largest pad of Jon’s paw again. And again. “Well, cutting his nails won’t be necessary,” she declares, tucking his paw back under the blanket and standing.

“What?” Martin frowns at her.

A scowl spreads across Tim’s face as he realizes what that means. “He got declawed?”

“Yeah, apparently. Or he might have the bones, and just got his claws ripped out in a fight. That’d explain the state of his ears.” Sasha shrugs, tucking the clippers away in her desk. “Shame I took the tag off these. Now I can’t return them.”

“We probably should have checked,” Martin admits.

“Yeah.” Sasha stares at Jon for a moment. “We’re awful pet owners.”

“I’m trying!” Martin frowns at Tim. “I’m not the one feeding him all sorts of things cats shouldn’t have!”

“Alright, we’ve agreed that spicy things don’t affect Jon –” Tim begins.

“Unless this is a delayed reaction,” Sasha chimes in, and shrugs in response to Tim’s dirty look.

“—and your brief foray into Google said that coconut milk is fine. It’s not like we’ve given him a diet of salami and crackers, okay? He gets to wander around the Archives and break into places he shouldn’t get into, like the Archivist’s office.”

“Tim, we didn’t realize we forgot a litter box until a week and a half in,” Sasha points out.

Tim sighs. “Alright, we’re not the best pet owners,” he concedes. “But we’re not horrible. At least we didn’t declaw him.”

Sasha glances back at Jon. “Should we start socializing him when he wakes up?”

“No, he seems pretty well adjusted. Climbs all over us, and all that.” Tim picks up his half-finished sandwich. “Well, administrative talents aside, he seems pretty well adjusted.”

//

“You sure you got him?” Martin asks, twisting his hands as he stands by the coat rack, coat on but open and scarf hanging untied around his neck.

“Yes, I’m sure,” Tim says patiently, stopping his chair mid-spin and pausing his phone game. “If something drastic changes, I’ll let you know. Leave your phone on, Sasha, will you?”

Sasha rolls her eyes. “If something happens with your relationship between the hours of ten in the evening and six in the morning, that is between you and god,” she says. “But yes, I’ll keep it on.”

“Great. Martin, it’ll be okay.” Tim smiles reassuringly. “I found a 24-hour vet clinic in case he goes downhill. I have your recipe for cat food, which I’ll make once I get back to the apartment. I’ll wrap him in the blanket for the commute home. We’ll be fine.”

Martin bites his lip, glancing over at Jon. “I can take him –”

“We’ll be _fine_ , Martin,” Tim repeats. “Go home, get some rest, don’t worry too much about him. I’ll call you if anything changes, okay?”

There’s a bit of a standoff for several long seconds as Martin stares at Jon and Tim stares at Martin.

But finally, Martin sighs, quickly crosses the room to pet Jon one last time. “Alright. Call me –”

“If anything changes,” Tim agrees. “Go home. Shoo. I have a solitaire game to finish.”

Sasha firmly takes hold of Martin’s elbow, and practically drags him out of the Archives.

“Well now,” Tim says, looking to Jon’s still sleeping form. “I guess we’ll see how tonight and tomorrow goes. Not eating for a day and a half can’t be good for you.”

Jon doesn’t react. Just snuffles slightly, and presses his nose deeper into the blankets.

//

Tim tucks Jon into bed.

It’s rather ridiculous, even Tim will admit, the act of traveling across the city while carrying a cat wrapped in a fluffy blanket.

It’s even more ridiculous that Tim physically tucks Jon into bed, shifting the covers back and carefully laying Jon down, adjusting Jon’s blanket a bit to keep his face clear.

“Any time you want to stop scaring us,” Tim says conversationally, sitting on the bed to take his neon orange socks off, “feel free.”

Jon doesn’t react.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> summary: jon is still asleep, but Martin takes him to work anyway. at the end of the day, jon goes home with tim.
> 
> so things Aren't Getting Better Fast  
> but dw, things start happening again next chapter. i'm trying to get at least one plot point per chapter -- it just happens that this plot point lasts more than one day.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon wakes up. 
> 
> Tim is surprisingly tender.
> 
> Elias is horny in a creepy way.
> 
> Martin wins a game of chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fluff!

There is a common phrase that hyperbolically compares bad breath to the smell of decay.

When Jon wakes up to the shrieking of Tim’s alarm, he gags on reflex and half expects the corpse of some small animal to come rolling out of his mouth. His teeth feel fuzzy, his tongue feels swollen and uncooperative, his head aches, and he cannot open his eyes.

Jon thrashes for a moment, wriggling until the arm Tim had wrapped around Jon’s waist finally comes loose and Jon can bring his hand up to his eye, picking away at the sleep dust gluing his eyes shut.

He still has no nails, of course. Bit them down to nothing right after his nightmare. He can feel the grittiness between his fingers, feel his eyelashes trying to flutter as he tries to open his eyes, but Jon’s not exactly making progress.

“Fuck, you’re alive!”

Jon stops his frantic movements, and turns his head in the direction of Tim’s voice, doing his best to convey an irritated expression with his eyes closed.

“Hold on, Jon, let me help.” And then Tim leaves, climbs out of bed and turns off his alarm and walks out of the bedroom.

Jon fumbles his way into an upright position, shaking his head roughly in an attempt to settle the pounding behind his eyes.

“Alright,” Tim says, and Jon flinches at Tim’s sudden proximity. “I need you to hold still, alright?”

Jon still flinches again when Tim presses a warm, damp cloth against his eyelids, carefully wiping away the dried sleep dust gluing his eyelashes together and caking his eyes shut.

But Tim is gentle, keeping a firm grip on Jon’s chin with one hand and turning Jon’s head this way and that to ensure it’s all gone, it’s all cleaned away.

“Alright,” Tim finally says, patting Jon’s face dry with what Jon thinks is probably the cuff of the shirt Tim must be wearing, but he’s not sure. “Let’s see your creepy eyes.” He doesn’t let go of Jon’s face, though, instead keeping a hand on Jon’s jaw and rubbing soothing circles into his cheek.

Obediently, Jon opens his eyes, blinking rapidly until Tim’s form comes into focus. It perhaps takes a bit longer than Jon would like.

“There you are!” Tim grins, lets go of Jon’s face, ruffles Jon’s hair. And now Jon winces for a completely different reason as his attention is drawn to the dirty mess attached to his scalp, braid barely intact. “Just let me text Sasha and Martin, then breakfast,” Tim promises, unplugging his phone.

Jon glances down at himself.

He’s still in a dress shirt and trousers, both of which are creased and crinkled and dirty and smell. He wrinkles his nose on reflex. At least he never put his shoes back on. His fingers are – they are normal fingers. Very short nails, considering how he’d bitten them after his nightmare. A bit sensitive, but not painful anymore. Just his hands. Normal hands.

Jon looks at Tim while Tim takes the pictures, his completely normal hands resting in his lap. It’s a small price to pay. And if – when – this is over and done, Jon supposes he could probably bribe Tim into deleting the pictures somehow. Provided the files aren’t utterly corrupted, of course.

“Breakfast, and then we break out into the creepy foggy morning to our equally creepy workplace,” Tim says cheerfully, pocketing his phone and scooping Jon up into his arms.

“I understand I’ve imposed quite a bit,” Jon says, wriggling slightly and grimacing at the general feel of dirty cloth against his skin, “but I’m afraid I’ll need to borrow some of your clothes, since I presently don’t have access to a laundry machine.”

//

“When did he wake up?” Martin asks, glancing across the room, eyes lingering on the armchair that was noticeably missing one certain archival cat. “And where is he?”

Tim shrugs. “I guess he’s gone off to roll in whatever smells good in the depths of the Archives,” he says. “And he woke up – with my alarm, I think. Got spooked until I cleaned his eyes out, but he’s fine.” Tim holds up a file. “He even gave us work today, too.”

Martin stares at the armchair a few moments longer.

“Look,” Tim sighs, “we can’t keep him locked up. He’s gotten used to wandering the place.”

“He was asleep for so long, though,” Martin points out. “We should keep an eye on him. Has he eaten?”

“Yeah. Gave him a bowl of chili as half as big as he is, and he ate it all.”

Martin frowns at Tim. “ _Chili_?”

Tim sighs again, exasperated. “He can deal with spicy foods,” he points out. “We’ve been feeding him that kind of thing for a while. I figured, better to get some food in him.”

“But maybe the spicy food is what made him like that,” Martin argues. “Cats can’t handle what makes peppers spicy.”

“Peppers aren’t the only spicy thing out there!” Tim shakes his head. “Martin, Jon’s awake, he’s fine, he hit me in the chest when I tried to put keep him in my lap this morning, so he’s _definitely_ fine. He’s probably off doing his cat work.”

Martin raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, I realize that makes it sound like he’s making a mess of everything,” Tim admits. “Arcatvist work, then.”

//

Jon hears footsteps outside his office before the door opens. The office isn’t exactly _soundproof_ , however thick and sturdy the door may be. 

“Hello, Jon,” Elias says politely, closing the door to Jon’s office behind him and smiling blandly. “How are you feeling today?”

“Like I slept for two days,” Jon says dryly, running a hand over loose and still-damp hair. He’d washed it three times before it began to feel even remotely clean, and the hot water hadn’t done anything for his head. “Are you here to dresscode me again, Elias?”

“No.” Elias tilts his head, taking in Jon’s oversized sweatshirt and baggy leggings with a glance, bloodshot eyes and damp hair. “No, I’m here on – well, I suppose it’s an intervention about your wellbeing. I understand you’ve been doing your research about this whole business, haven’t you?”

“Well, considering the book has vanished –”

“Not in Artefact Storage, then?” Elias raises his eyebrows. “Pity. I simply wish to remind you that, present condition notwithstanding, you are still the Archivist, and I’d very much like to avoid seeing you run yourself into the ground like you just did.”

“What does that mean?” Jon demands. “I – I have been like this for nearly two weeks now, and I’m not exactly making any real progress towards getting out of this, and –”

“There’s no need to take that tone with me,” Elias says firmly. “Today marks the two week point, Jon. And you were hardly doing a great deal of work the first few days, now were you?”

Jon looks away, biting his lip. “I thought,” he says finally, “that it was a joke.”

“And then you realized it wasn’t, and thought that it would simply go away on its own?” Elias sighs. “When do these things ever go away on their own, Jon? You’ve dealt with enough Statements to know better.”

Jon doesn’t dignify that with a response.

“Anyway. I wanted to point out that perhaps reading so many Statements in such a short time – you read four in one day, didn’t you? From beginning to end? Well, that is not the best plan. They’re hard on you, aren’t they?”

Again, Jon is silent. He doesn’t return his gaze to Elias, though; no, he keeps those pretty eyes turned away, such a lovely green and such a dull brown.

Shame. They’re quite lovely, but it’s not like Elias can waste too much time staring intently at his Archivist. Running the Institute does require work, after all.

“You learned that at the beginning, didn’t you? You could go through statement after statement, discarding them and disproving them, but the moment something serious comes up?”

Jon stays stubbornly silent.

“I might suggest pacing yourself,” Elias continues. “Read the statements. Take notes. But take it slowly. I don’t want you hurting yourself again.”

“…Noted,” Jon finally says, looking back at Elias.

“And unpleasant though this general experience might be,” Elias adds, “your eyes are quite lovely now, aren’t they?”

//

“Jon, I have pad thai, and I think you should come eat now before Martin takes it away!” Tim shouts into the hallway leading deeper into the Archives, bag of Thai food clutched in one hand.

“I’m not going to steal your food, Tim,” Martin says, stabbing ineffectually at his pasta with a dull plastic fork. He’d forgotten any cutlery this morning, and Tim had been able to nab an extra fork from the restaurant. Not one sharp enough to easily stab pasta with, but better than his fingers.

Probably.

“Jon!” Tim shouts again. “It’s getting cold!”

Surprisingly, Jon appears. The door to the Archivist’s office swings open, and out walks Jon, several files clamped between his jaws. He walks carefully, so as not to let the files brush the floor or to lose loose papers that may not have been secured well.

“Oh my god.” Tim shakes his head, but takes a step backward to let Jon through. “Never actually seen him carry files before. That’s adorable.”

Jon walks briskly past Tim, deposits the files on the armchair, and then returns to Tim’s side and meows.

“Yeah, yeah,” Tim laughs, scooping Jon up into one arm and walking back to his desk. “Food for the cat. Martin – what do you call him?”

Martin sighs. “I’m not teaching you Polish – Polish _endearments_ , Tim,” he says.

They’ve had this conversation before.

“Well, Sasha won’t teach me Latin ones –”

“Or Greek!” Sasha chimes in cheerfully.

“—and it’s not like I know any other languages.” Tim pauses. “No other languages I can use while holding a cat and food, at least.”

“That’s right, you sign, don’t you?” Sasha muses.

“Yeah. Had a Deaf neighbor who I did yardwork for,” Tim says, shuffling Jon in his lap and pulling out two dishes of strongly smelling pad thai.

Jon looked both long-suffering and anticipatory, and turns to face Tim to meow quietly.

“You’re welcome,” Tim says cheerfully, opening one box and setting it on his desk.

Jon stretches forward, climbing from Tim’s lap to perch on the desk, and promptly begins to devour the food.

“See? He’s eating.” Tim shrugs at Martin. “Better than him wandering off and ignoring lunch and dinner.”

Martin sighs, and stabs at his pasta again.

//

Jon… takes Elias’ words to heart. His head still throbs, a deep-set pain behind his eyes and in his temples; it’s not like this is _unexpected_ , per say, considering he’s tried before to force his way through multiple statements in a week, but it’s inconvenient.

He makes his way through most of one file, laying down in the armchair with his head on one armrest and his feet braced against the other, knees propped up and file braced against his legs.

He makes his way through most of one file before he admits defeat.

His head throbs, a pain that’s become all-encompassing, and Jon’s half terrified that if he touches his ears he’ll find blood.

(He doesn’t. His fingers catch on empty piercings, but there’s no blood. Nothing to worry about.)

And Jon admits defeat for the day, closing the file and closing his eyes.

What’s one more day of lost work?

//

“You got him last night,” Martin points out.

“And I also got him to wake up,” Tim argues.

Sasha looks between the two of them, and shakes her head. “Martin,” she says. “Give me a coin.”

“I know what you’re going to do,” Tim says with narrowed eyes.

“Well, it’s not like you two are going to stop arguing,” Sasha retorts, accepting a coin from Martin. “Heads or tails?”

“Tails,” Tim says quickly.

Sasha nods, and flips the coin into the air. She snatches it as it reaches it’s apex, slamming it down onto the back of her other hand. “Heads.”

Tim shakes his head. “Fine. I admit defeat.”

Martin smiles at Sasha.

“Don’t thank me, thank gravity and chance.”

Tim still pouts at Sasha as they leave, the look of a friendly dog who’s been utterly betrayed, who’s been kicked and left out in the rain. Or who’s been denied the last scrap of meat from a finished meal.

//

Jon’s conscious when he and Martin leave the Archives, and that’s about all to be said for it. He’s conscious, his head hurts, and he feels exhausted. But he’s not asleep.

“You’re still tired, aren’t you?” Martin coos as he carefully deposits Jon onto the couch, right next to the stuffed bee.

Jon is not ashamed by the fact that he immediately pulls the bee closer, tucking it under his head. It’s _soft_ , after all. And according to the tag, aptly named.

“Let’s just get you one last snack, and then I’ll read in bed,” Martin promises.

“Martin, I would be perfectly content sleeping out here,” Jon says. He doesn’t sit up, though, doesn’t move from his curled-up position on the couch. “You don’t need to continue… accommodating me.”

“I know, Jon, you’re probably not that hungry, but you missed a couple meals,” Martin says, rummaging around in his kitchen. “Here. Nothing fancy, but…”

Martin appears in Jon’s line of sight with some kind of vegetable wrapped in a piece of salami in hand and his usual worried expression etched into his face.

The sheer amount of salami Jon’s been eating is truly getting a bit absurd, Jon’s willing to admit, but he doesn’t complain. Food is food, and he’s tired. Besides, he eats the thing in two bites. (It’s wrapped around a few slices of yellow pepper.)

“Bedtime now,” Martin croons, scooping Jon up and carefully making his way to his bedroom.

Jon doesn’t bother arguing. He’s not cold, not in the way that he was after the storm, but he’s exhausted and his head hurts. And really, it’s not _worth_ arguing. Not when Martin can’t understand him. It’s just a waste of energy that Jon doesn’t have right now.

Jon’s asleep before he even touches the mattress, before Martin pulls the blankets up over him, before Martin himself comes to bed with book in hand. But his sleep is restful. Peaceful. And he stirs slightly when Martin sits down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in my defense. episode 92, after the drama with daisy nearly shooting elias. elias and jon talk, and elias says that jon was barely able to get through a statement a week in the early days, which is on page 20 of the transcript linked in the wiki. (i spent three and a half hours trying to find out if this actually happened or was just in a fanfic, i'm citing my work lol)  
> so, reading multiple genuine statements in one day -- as jon did in chapter 17, after he broke into artefact storage, would be Rough. symptoms based off of finals week, really.
> 
> also lbr the spiral and the eye having a fistfight in jon's brain definitely doesn't help anything lol


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon get tea.
> 
> An ex-Catholic goes to a Catholic church and does not have a good time.
> 
> Sasha muses about job prospects. 
> 
> Elias, unfortunately, makes an appearance.
> 
> Tim cooks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more mcelroy podcasts are mentioned. don't worry, i have a list of other podcasts for tim to listen to.

Jon’s headache has not gone away during the night. He’s quite warm and comfortable (when had he turned to face Martin, curl into Martin’s chest, accept the leg Martin’s thrown over Jon’s hips?), but his head still aches, throbbing behind his eyes and in his temples.

Martin, at least, wakes to the second alarm, so Jon escapes quickly into the cold flat. He does not, however much he may want to, grab one of Martin’s numerous blankets to shelter from the cold.

But nor does Martin carry him into the kitchen, which is a bit of a relief. Jon’s sore – understandable, considering he spent roughly two days in the same position. Moving around helps, somewhat. He still limps his way into the kitchen, joints tight and vehemently protesting the movement.

Breakfast, sans tea because Jon didn’t wake early enough to make said tea before Martin got up, then to the Archives and the blessed shower hiding in its depths.

...Jon needs a haircut.

//

When Martin sets Jon down in the Archives, the same file from yesterday is there. It’s one of the ones that won’t record, one of the ones that leave a feeling of dread in Martin’s chest, one of the ones that make the Archives as a whole seem just a bit colder.

“Do you drink tea?” Martin chatters as he heads towards the breakroom, coat still on but gloves and cowl stuffed in his pocket.

Jon meows, rather emphatically.

“Most of what I found talked about spicy peppers and chocolate and grapes – you know, the normal stuff,” Martin continues, putting the kettle on and pulling out the box of tea. “Though considering you ate Tim’s chili, I think you’re fine on peppers.”

Jon meows again, winding around Martin’s ankles.

“Yes, hello, hello. I can’t pick you up right now, I’m making tea.”

Jon meows hopefully.

“Well, I know you’re lactose intolerant –” Martin makes the mistake of looking down and seeing Jon’s disappointed expression “—no, don’t give me that, I’m trying not to kill you, you’re far too adorable for that. But I guess I could give you tea with sugar?”

Jon’s expression turns painfully hopeful, and Martin’s heart melts.

“Well, that answers that, I suppose,” he says, and pulls down a mug that’s probably wide enough for Jon to fit his entire face into. “I better not find this thrown up somewhere in the Archives,” Martin says, going for stern and landing squarely in worried.

Jon meows.

//

There’s no new file on Martin’s desk. No, the innocuous-seeming file waiting for him is the same as had been sitting there the day before. And the day before that. A file that refused to record and left a knot of unease in Martin’s stomach.

He really doesn’t want to start working on it.

But he has a mug of tea and a cat staring pointedly at him with mismatched eyes, and Martin really feels like he has no excuse.

“I don’t suppose you have any advice for me today?” Martin jokes as he sits down, fussing with his tea and his sleeves and where to put his gloves, _heavily_ stalling.

But Jon approaches the desk, neatly leaping up to sit next to the file. He’s careful with the file, grabbing the corner of the first page between teeth and carefully pulling it open.

“Okay then, I guess you do.” Martin smiles at Jon. “Well, hit a paragraph you think’s important, I guess.”

Jon’s eyes seem much brighter than they were before his little coma, one vibrant green and the other so light a brown as to appear almost yellow.

“Time for a scary story, I suppose,” Martin says, and Jon meows, twisting to bury his face in his mug of tea.

Hadn’t Martin put it down next to the armchair?

Well, obviously not, since it’s now sitting next to Martin’s own mug of tea, on top of Martin’s desk.

//

Jon isn’t going to ask _why_ Tim had a bottle of painkillers in his desk, but nor is he going to complain. Martin’s distracted by the passages Jon had pointed out, and so doesn’t notice as Jon quickly takes a few tablets dry and chases them with a mouthful of tea. It’s not the best idea, coated tablets and a hot drink, but it could be worse. Probably.

But Jon has his own work to do, self-interested work but work nonetheless. His assistants – most of them – are competent and can act without Jon’s instruction, but he’d prefer to be able to directly supervise.

He’d also prefer to not be seen as a cat. That would also be quite nice.

The painkillers don’t do much, though. Sitting properly, at his own desk, doesn’t do much. His eyes throb and joints ache, no matter how much he wanders through the Archives with open file in hand. And he’s unfortunately still quite exhausted.

It’s not a productive day. Not by any standards.

//

“How’s Jon?” Tim asks as he plugs his phone in, scowling briefly at the low battery warning that lags in going away. His commute is long enough, and Temple Run always eats away at his battery, that there have been multiple times when his phone dies before he even gets to the Institute.

“He was sleepy enough when I took him home,” Martin says, holding a mug of tea between his hands but not drinking it. Cold hands? Tim could sympathize. “But he ate breakfast.”

“That’s always better than not eating breakfast,” Sasha points out, checking the earbud still in use to make sure it wasn’t about to fall out of her ear. “He’ll be fine.”

“He’s a rescue cat, though,” Martin says. “There might be underlying issues –”

“Then take him to a vet. He’ll be fine, or he won’t.” Sasha shrugs matter-of-factly. “Come on. Don’t we have work from him?”

Tim groans inarticulately, and Martin and Sasha both pretend not to notice the painkillers Tim swallows dry.

“Martin, can you call the phone number listed again? See if the woman actually speaks Polish?” Sasha asks, tapping her bottom lip with a pen.

“I’m pretty certain she speaks Polish,” Tim says.

“You’ve only heard Polish endearments towards a cat,” Sasha says without missing a beat. “Martin?”

“…Yeah. Yeah, I’ll do that,” Martin says, finally taking a sip of tea. “I can do that. I can’t – can’t _interpret_ , or anything, but I’ll call her.”

“Take notes, and then translate those.” Sasha picks up her phone, and turns her music on. It sounds like blues today, loud and syncopated.

//

“Well?” Tim raises his eyebrows at Martin once Martin ends the call.

Martin promptly buries his face in his hands. “She wants me to meet her at her church,” he mumbles into his hands.

“What, is she Catholic?” Tim asks, half-teasing. “Does she want you to go to mass?”

“No.” Martin groans. “I think God might kill me if I walk in there.”

“Been too long since you’ve gone to confession?”

Martin moves his head from his hands to his desk.

“Aww, don’t worry, I can definitely feed you some nice lies to tell the priest,” Tim says cheerfully, kicking off from the edge of his desk to wheel over to Martin’s desk and pat Martin on the shoulder.

“If you break your neck, I’m not explaining it to Elias,” Sasha says without looking away from her work. Tim makes a face at her.

“Here, I’ll even go with you,” Tim says to Martin. “God can’t strike down both of us at once.”

Martin sighs. “Tell Jon I love him,” he jokes weakly.

“Believe me, I think he knows.”

//

“Well, that’s that spooky priest business aside.” Tim’s cheer seems a bit forced, and the arm he throws around Martin’s shoulder is a bit more tense than normal as they leave the church. “At least they didn’t try and guilt us into taking sacrament.”

“Communion.”

“Whatever. Aren’t you supposed to be eating the actual flesh and blood of Jesus?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh. Isn’t that cannibalism?”

Martin sighs. “Tim, I’m not a religious scholar,” he points out. “It’s just – it’s what we believe. They. They believe.”

“Yeah, I get you.” Tim steers Martin off the route back to the Institute in favor of heading towards a coffee shop. “Alright. Tea time. And I want hot chocolate.”

“We really ought to head back,” Martin protests, but it’s half-hearted at best, and he doesn’t make a fuss when Tim holds the door.

“We’ll head back when we have tea and hot chocolate,” Tim says. “Text Sasha, see if she wants anything.”

They lurk for a moment towards the back of the shop as Martin stares at the cracked screen of his phone, waiting for Sasha to respond.

“She drinks black coffee,” Martin says after a moment of waiting.

“Gross,” Tim says cheerfully, and heads towards the barista.

//

“Realistically,” Sasha says, “he’s going to find some stuffy old man who’s going to retire or die in a few years, and then once Tim’s up to his standards, he’s going to promote Tim.”

Jon looks at her with an expression that Sasha decides to interpret as _go on?_

“Because the last Archivist was female, and look at what she did.”

Jon meows.

“And so clearly, that means that there will never be reason to break tradition again, because he tried that and we all know how _that_ goes, so.” Sasha sighs. “I mean, I’ve been looking around at other places, put some feelers out. But I still don’t like being shuffled down here without a boss, and just having to fumble our way through the dark.”

Jon’s ears twitch.

“Occasionally led by a cat, yes.” Sasha snorts. “Because you are _clearly_ an academic.” She reached out and gently strokes one of his ears, careful not to catch any of the tattered skin with her nails.

Jon’s expression turns long-suffering, and Sasha laughs.

“Well, then let me go back to work,” she says, pulling her phone from her pocket and swiping through her playlists for a moment. “I have spooky phone calls to make.”

Jon meows again, sharply, and Sasha looks up.

He’s flicked through her notebook, somehow, and his paw is resting firmly on one particular paragraph of notes.

“What, you want me to double check these?”

Jon meows again.

Sasha stares at him.

Jon stares back.

Sasha sighs. “Well, it’s not like that wasn’t on my to-do list.”

//

“Sasha?” Martin calls, glancing around the empty room, tea and coffee in hand.

“Hold on!” Sasha’s voice calls from deeper in the Archives. She emerges quickly enough, stapler and file in hand. “Coffee?”

Martin holds up the cup in question.

“You’re a godsend.”

//

“Jon,” Elias said politely, smiling genially as Jon closes the door behind him. “I see you’re still in the habit of clothes theft. Perhaps –”

“ _Don’t._ ” Jon turns and glares at Elias. “Don’t. I have attempted that, and you don’t want to know what people think of a cat trying to use a laundromat.”

Elias’ lips twitch slightly in a way that makes Jon thinks he really would like to hear that story, but that’s not what Jon’s here about.

“I have a question,” Jon says, approaching Elias’ desk.

“Very well then.” Elias makes a vague _go on_ gesture.

“Firstly. I understand that this is – not exactly conventional, but, am I still on the payroll? Has my –”

“You are still considered an employee of the Institute, yes,” Elias says. “Apart from those first few days, you have continued your work, so I see no reason to terminate your employment. You will still be issued regular paychecks, and when this is all finished, I expect you to return to your duties in full.”

Jon nods. “Thank you.”

“Is that all?” Elias prompts, and Jon slowly nods. “Very well then. Might I ask – how are you personally finding this… situation? I do hope there haven’t been any more noticeable changes? Well, changes that you haven’t done to yourself.”

Jon flushes, and does his best to hide his chewed nails in the cuffs of the cardigan he’d borrowed from Martin. “…No.”

“No consistent pain? I imagine that turning from human to cat would be quite unpleasant.” Elias smiles at Jon, folding his hands atop his desk and raising his eyebrows.

“…No. Not really.” Jon doesn’t mention the headache that’s been going on ever since he woke up from that two-day period of unconsciousness.

“Well, that’s a relief. I can’t exactly say that I have any experience with this kind of thing, but please. Do feel free to come talk to me if there’s something I can do to help. I’d hate to have to find another Archivist, after all.”

“Sasha would be a good replacement,” Jon says immediately, mind flashing back to the conversation earlier, and her history of competency.

“Hm. I’ll keep that in mind. Is that all?”

Jon nods, and opens the door.

Martin is standing on the other side of the doorway, looking _quite_ confused.

“Ah, hello Martin.” Elias turns that genial, bland smile on Martin. “What can I help you with?”

Martin gestures at Jon. “Rosie said he went in your direction, and –”

“And you’re trying to keep him in the Archives.” Elias nods understandingly. “Of course. Well, I’m always happy to keep an eye on him, so to speak. He’s quite nice company, don’t you agree?”

“Yeah, we – we think so.”

Jon doesn’t complain when Martin scoops him up and practically runs back to the Archive – though his position does give him a view of Elias’ exasperated expression when he has to get up and finish closing the door himself.

//

“He was definitely talking stocks,” Tim says, unplugging his phone mid-spin so as not to tangle the cord around his chair. “Jon absolutely has a stock portfolio.”

“I don’t know, maybe they were discussing politics,” Sasha offers.

“Hmn, see, that brings up the question of how Elias votes, and I don’t want to think about that,” Tim muses, tapping his phone against his chin. “I think we have an economist bastard cat. Bastard boy. Evil baby.”

Martin frowns at Tim. “I’m taking him home tonight.”

“Hey!” Tim grabs the edge of his desk to stop his spin, and stares at Martin. “I didn’t say that!”

“I don’t know Tim,” Sasha teases, “you don’t sound happy with Jon right now. Maybe it’ll be for the best, give you two a bit of time apart.”

Jon meows dryly from his seat on the armchair, not looking up from the file spread out in front of him.

“Distance is good for a relationship, after all,” Sasha continues, not even bothering to hide the massive grin on her face. “Distance makes the heart grow fonder, and all that.”

“A lot of siblings insult each other!” Tim turns his betrayed look from Martin to Sasha. “Two sisters in my class exclusively called each other ‘bitch’ when the teacher was out of earshot!”

“And when the teacher _was_ in earshot?”

“Their names.”

“That’s unrealistic," Sasha chimes in.

“It is,” Tim agrees. “But! I insult him because I _care_ , Martin, and he needs variety! Who’s to say he won’t forget me?”

Martin gives Tim an unimpressed look.

“Do I have to flip a coin again?” Sasha asks. “Martin?”

Martin shrugs. “I used my change to tip the barista,” he says apologetically. “Sorry.”

“Well then.” Sasha looks at Tim. “Random number generator.”

“You have a computer!”

“Yes, but as you can see, I’m doing very important things,” Sasha says primly, turning her laptop so all could see the colorful Instagram feed she was scrolling through. Sasha has no guilt. They’re officially off the clock, after all.

“How about we let Jon decide?” Martin asks, fiddling with his pens for a brief moment. “Tim and I stand in opposite sides of the room, and he goes to whoever he wants to go home with.”

Jon yowls.

“Or we could not do that,” Tim adds quickly. “Look, you got him last night. I get him tonight.”

“And then who gets him on the weekend?”

Sasha ends the conversation by closing her laptop and standing. “Tim got him last weekend,” she says, picking up her planner and making a note. “Martin got him last night.” Another note. “Tim gets him tonight.” A third. “And then Martin gets him this weekend. Take turns, boys, we’re not in nursery school anymore.”

Martin pouts, and Tim punches the air in triumph.

//

“Okay.” Tim plops Jon down and claps his hands sharply. “My general view of cooking is taking whatever the fuck you want to make, and add enough hot peppers to make Martin cry. So. Spicy lasagna?”

“That sounds like an abomination,” Jon says calmly, “that I am very much interested in trying.”

“I’m gonna take that as a yes,” Tim says cheerfully. “Remind me to get you actual coconut water on Monday, because this much coconut milk can’t be good for you.” He kicks off his shoes and then neatly lines them up by the door, hanging up coat and scarf just so, and ambles into the kitchen, already pulling out his phone. “One meow for Taz, and two for My Brother, My Brother, and Me.”

“Oh god, there’s another one?”

“MBMBAM it is,” Tim plugs his phone in, turns on the podcast, and turns to the fridge.

“ _The McElroy brothers are not experts, and their advice should never be taken. Travis insists he’s a sexpert, but if there’s a degree on his wall, I’ve never seen it…_ ”

“Oh good lord.”

//

“It’s a shame neither of you have washing machines,” Jon calls as he pulls on one of Tim’s shirts and grabs the first pair of leggings that look vaguely comfortable. “As I would then be able to wear my own clothes.” He carefully folds up the clothes stolen from Martin, sliding them under the bed alongside his shoes. “I still apologize for ransacking your wardrobe, Tim, but I’ve completely used up the clothes I have stashed in the Archives, and I’d rather not walk around in the same clothes until I find out how to break this.”

Tim ambles into the room, tugging a comb through his short hair. “Aren’t you chatty tonight,” he says, ruffling Jon’s hair. “Are you critiquing the state of my bedroom?”

“I’m certain I could eat off your bedroom floor without worry,” Jon corrects. Then – “But please don’t make me, I would rather not,” he hastens to add.

“Bedtime bedtime bedtime,” Tim chants, hands flicking through signs that seem a bit awkward and out of practice. “Fuck, I ought to find night classes.”

“I believe two-year colleges are the best place for that,” Jon says, climbing into bed and scooting towards the wall.

“Not like I ever had formal education, though,” Tim muses, turning off the light and closing the door. “Goodnight, Jon.”

“Goodnight, Tim. And I apologize again, though I feel this may be like a broken record should you remember these days after I find the Leitner again. I believe –”

Tim flops onto the bed, and Jon’s words are abruptly cut off by a sharp yelp as he’s tossed into the air.

“Sorry, Jonnyboy.” Tim reaches out blindly, but manages to miss Jon’s face in favor of patting his left ear.

“Please don’t call me that.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'd like to make the Cursed Note that if jon was part of the mechanisms due to his actor being part of the mechanisms  
> basira was also in the mechanisms
> 
> that is all.


	21. Friday, Day 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A pen war occurs. 
> 
> Michael appears. 
> 
> Actual work is done.
> 
> Elias is helpful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh look more plot. whoops. also more elias, which is infinitely more Whoops  
> warning for general unreality and vague body horror in regards to Spiral shenaniganry.
> 
> also do or die time, i have literally no idea how to write michael and relistening/reading the transcripts did not help so rip

“One file for all of us,” Tim says once Sasha’s settled. “This’ll be fun.”

Sasha groans. “Give it here, let’s see how bad it is.” Her face is rather grim as she takes the file, flicking through it. “That’s what we get for working through other cases.”

Jon meows apologetically from his armchair.

“Have you tried recording it?”

“Nope.” Tim shrugs. “Figured I’d pass _that_ joy onto you, since I did the last one.”

“Martin did the last one,” Sasha corrects automatically. “Well Jon, it seems you’ll be thoroughly earning your keep today.”

Jon meows again, this time sounding rather displeased.

“Yes, well, that’s what you get for giving us one of these.”

Jon yowls.

“It’s ten pages long!”

Jon’s yowling continues, and Sasha sighs. Tim pitches a pen in Jon’s general direction, and Jon shuts up, too busy ducking the projectile to continue screaming.

“Maybe we can get Fifi and what’s-her-name to come up today,” Tim says, tapping his keyboard absently. “Get a bit of amusement.”

“Get video of a cat petting a dog, you mean?”

“Well, that too.” Tim pauses. “Did we ever get her name?”

“Vivian.”

“Great. Because that’d be _quite_ awkward otherwise.”

Sasha laughs. “‘Hi, replacement fodder for Artefact Storage, do you mind bringing your mobility assistance dog up to play with our Archival cat? Oh, by the way, what’s your name? We never actually asked, since we were too busy with your dog.’”

“Yeah, just about.” Tim shakes his head. “That might be the only thing to get me through today.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get Jon next weekend.”

Tim throws a pen at Sasha, who doesn’t succeed in ducking and gets a streak of ink across her cheek.

“Tim!” Sasha scowl, licking her fingertip and rubbing at the ink, only succeeding in smudging the line. “You’re lucky I’m not wearing makeup today!”

“What, no eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man?” Tim grins at her, grabbing his phone and shamelessly starting a Snapchat recording.

“Of course not, I don’t have a date tonight.” Sasha grabs a different pen – capped, because she’s not a heathen – and throws it at Tim.

Tim just laughs.

//

Jon sighs, rubbing at the skin below his eyes as he stares down at the file spread across his legs and the other half of the armchair. Every part of him aches with exhaustion, and his headache still has not gone away.

Statements? Or worse?

Or the broken armchair that he’s taken up residence in?

He leans over in defeat, resting his head against the armrest, and cracks his knuckles in an attempt to relieve the cramps to some degree. The sound echoes through the room, but it just leaves his hands aching in a completely different way.

The Archives are quiet, at least, with all three assistants out in search of lunch or something. Jon hadn’t exactly been paying attention, not once Tim started mocking Sasha’s taste in music and Martin had physically dragged Tim up the stairs to avoid a brawl.

It’s quiet, and he’s alone, but Jon feels like he’s being watched.

“Hello, my dear,” a strange voice croons from above him.

Jon flinches, jolts upright, nearly brains himself on the figure that had leaned over him. But the figures shifts quickly, circling around the chair to stand behind the other armrest and stare Jon down again.

“Hello, Archivist,” the person says, grinning a grin that is far too wide, and leaning forwards again until it’s riotous mane of blond curls are draped around Jon’s face like a curtain, and its own face is far too close. “Aren’t you interesting?”

Jon opens his mouth, speechless. “I –”

“Ah ah.” The creature blinks at him, slowly, eyelashes dancing through shades of blond and red and brown and back again, eyes swirling with enough colors and enough _bright_ colors to give Jon a headache for a completely different reason.

“I’m –”

The creature shakes its head again. “Come now. Let’s have some fun, yes?” 

And then it grabs him, and he is lost.

//

“And the cat is gone,” Tim announces, lightly slapping the back of the armchair in emphasis. “Off to perform shenanigans whilst we slave over a spooky statement.”

“He’s a cat, Tim,” Sasha points out. Then she glances over at Martin. “He’s a cat, Martin,” she repeats. “Now come on, the sooner we’re done the sooner we leave.”

“I don’t think it works like that,” Tim muses, plopping down in his chair and plugging his phone in. “See, as far as I remember from my contract, I believe that unless we’re sick, we’re supposed to stay until five. And if you’ll recall, it is presently quite some time away from five.”

Martin ducks the projectile that Sasha hurls in Tim’s general direction. It bounces off the wall to the left of Tim, falling to the ground with a quiet sound.

“Alright, who gets the dubious pleasure of following up with the police?” Sasha asks – but she looks directly at Tim, and raises an eyebrow.

Tim sighs dramatically, then laughs. “On it. Should I start calling you ‘boss’ instead? Since you’re practically the Archivist in all but name, now.”

Sasha groans. “Don’t get my hopes up,” she mutters.

“…I’ll go make some tea, shall I?” Martin says, standing and scurrying towards the breakroom before either Sasha or Tim can say no.

“Do you think he was a barista before this?” Tim asks.

“He just makes good tea, Tim, that doesn’t mean he did it as a job.”

“Okay, but Sasha, he makes _really good tea._ ”

Sasha raises an eyebrow. “Follow up?” she prompts, and Tim flashes a thumbs up.

“On it, fellow Archival Assistant.”

Sasha throws another pen.

//

Jon’s hands are bleeding again as he walks through hallways on legs that bend the wrong way, leaning heavily on the wall as his back periodically gives out, ignoring the constant pain in his pelvis. There is a way out.

There must be.

This is a hallway, and hallways must lead somewhere.

His hand brushes against a mirror, and the blood stretches in long, shiny strings of viscous fluid when he moves his hand away, shiny strings that turn black and flat until he’s dragging along tape, followed by the crackling background audio of a recording.

Hallways must lead somewhere.

It must.

Jon stumbles as his foot twists, sole burning and blistering. He should have kept his shoes on.

He had kept his shoes on.

Hadn’t he?

//

“Okay but this woman was bigger than Martin,” Tim insists, spinning slowly in his chair. “I swear, she was a mountain in cop form.”

“Tim, some women are big,” Sasha says patiently. “You’ve seen pictures of my grandmother.”

“Your grandmother had nothing on this woman,” Tim says without hesitation. “Your grandmother was a farmer, and could break me in half. This woman could break Elias’ _desk_ in half, easily.”

Martin looks down at his tea, and very much looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“She was half again as big as Martin!” Tim continues. “I think she could throw a truck!”

“Tim, how is this relevant to the follow up?” Sasha asks.

“Oh. Right. Yeah, Olive went missing on the same day the statement giver said, and hasn’t been seen since. Missing person report wasn’t filed for eight weeks, and she was declared legally dead two years ago.”

“Wonderful.” Sasha taps a pen against the back of her left hand. “And the grandmother? Martin?”

“She, ah – she died three years back,” Martin says, staring more intently at his tea. “The house was torn down last year.”

“ _Lovely_.” Sasha sighs. “Where’s Jon? I want a hug.”

“I’m right here,” Tim offers, spreading his arms wide.

“Jon’s better.”

Tim puts on an incredibly offended face, and clutches a hand to his chest. “You _wound_ me!”

“I’ll go look for him,” Martin says, standing with tea in hand. “I – he’s probably in the stacks. Probably needed another file.” He laughs nervously, and walks away.

“…maybe he doesn’t like cops?” Tim suggests.

“Honestly, who does?” Sasha pauses, then scoots towards Tim in her roller chair. “Hug?”

Tim crows in triumph, but hugs Sasha nonetheless.

//

There is a hand resting on Jon’s forehead.

Jon’s eyes are bleeding, and there is no person around him.

There is a hand in his hair, a hand that feels far too heavy for its size.

“My, isn’t this soft,” comes a voice from behind him, but when Jon turns there’s nobody there and he only succeeds in wrapping tape around himself.

There are fingers touching Jon’s eyes, pads resting gently against Jon’s pupils, but there is nothing in front of him.

Jon’s mouth is full of water, full and full and full until it dribbles out the sides, dripping down his head towards his ears, sinking into his hair.

There is tape in his mouth.

His feet ache.

And his back gives out.

//

“He’s not in the stacks,” Martin says, appearing sans mug of tea and with a newly worried expression.

“Are you sure? He could probably blend in,” Tim says, tapping idly away at his phone. It’s close enough to five, there’s not much point in trying to be productive anymore.

“I’m sure,” Martin insists. “I do have a torch on my phone, Tim.”

Tim shrugs. “Yeah, but cats are sneaky.”

“Tim, his collar has a bell,” Sasha says absently, ambling around the room to collect pens from scattered landing points. 

“He has to move to make it ring, though.”

Martin glances between them. “I’ll – I’ll just go back and look.”

Tim doesn’t look up from his phone, but gives Martin a thumbs up nonetheless.

“What’s your follower count at now?” Sasha asks, patting down the carpet in search of a pen cap that’s vanished.

“Twitter or Instagram?”

“…Instagram.”

“Eight hundred and ten. You?”

“You spend far too much time on your pictures,” Sasha scoffs.

“Are you jealous?” Tim asks, grinning at her – a grin that widens when Sasha gives him an unimpressed look. “What’s yours at?”

“A hundred.”

“Aww, don’t worry.” Tim’s grin turns charming, and Sasha seriously considers undoing her work and throwing a pen at him. “I’m sure you’ll get there. Eventually. Just work on your picture composition, you know?”

“And take more gym selfies?”

“Well, yeah, that definitely helps.”

//

There are fingers digging into his eyes.

“That’s quite enough, Archivist,” a stern voice says, and Jon abruptly rolls over, heaving violently into a waiting waste bin.

He’s – he’s lying on a couch, a wool suit jacket draped over him that smells of expensive cologne. Or, cologne that probably smells expensive. Jon hasn’t exactly wandered through a department store.

“Are you alright, Jon?” Whoever’s speaking is worried, and their hands are gentle as they keep Jon’s braid from falling into the line of fire as Jon continues to retch.

But his retching turns to dry heaving, and the hands tuck his braid to the side, and vanish.

“Here, drink this,” the person says, and a glass of water is abruptly in Jon’s face. He struggles to an upright position with the person’s help – all he sees through the tears is a blurred form in a white shirt and grey trousers – and greedily gulps at the water.

“Not too fast,” they warn, gently tipping the glass away from Jon’s mouth. “You’ll get sick again.”

Jon sighs, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand and blinking up at the person.

Elias.

He’s sitting in Elias’ office.

He violently threw up in Elias’ waste bin, and it is Elias’ jacket presently draped around his shoulders. Elias, kneeling by the couch, helpfully holding a cup of water. Elias, with a concerned expression on his face.

Well. Okay.

“Are you feeling better, Jon?” Elias asks, the same concern scrawled across his face heavy in his tone.

Jon opens his mouth, and all that comes out his a raspy cough.

“Ah, my apologies. Here.” Elias hands over the water, which Jon promptly drains in one go. “Are you feeling better?”

Jon takes careful stock of himself.

He’s borrowed another pair of Tim’s leggings today, because they at least have a degree of ease at the ankle and don’t look _utterly_ ridiculous bunched up – but they also reveal the joints in his legs. Joints that move normally.

And his socks and shoes – he has no idea where those went, but though his feet are itchy and blistered, they are still his feet, complete with the scar on his ankle from a particularly irate chihuahua when he was six and the one across the top of his foot from a moving accident that had needed eighteen stitches and Georgie had never let him live down (after they left A&E, of course). His hands are inflamed and raw again, from fingertips to wrists and back again, but there’s no blood, and his nails are still short.

“I – yes, thank you, Elias, I’m feeling much better,” Jon says, and this time his voice doesn’t die a raspy death in his throat. “I – apologize, I’m not quite sure –”

“Nonsense.” Elias waves him off. “Have you made any progress in your research? Perhaps that could explain why I found you wandering the hallway.”

“No, not – not really, I’m afraid.” Jon frowns. “You found me wandering the hallway and brought me here?”

“Of course.” Elias raises his eyebrows. “You don’t want to wake sleepwalkers, and I believed that was the case. Better to lead them back to bed – or couch, in this case.”

“Thank... thank you.” Jon carefully rubs at his eyes, and can’t tell if the resulting flinch is from the pain in his hands or the pain in his eyes. “I ought to get back to the Archives, I – I apologize, for all of this.”

“Nonsense,” Elias repeats, standing and offering Jon a hand up. “Can you make it down? Your feet do look a bit worse for wear.”

Jon sighs. “We’ll find out.” He takes the hand, stands – and collapses back onto the couch, tears welling in his eyes again as pain shoots through his feet.

Elias gives him a considering look. “Well, I’ll just have to help you down to the Archives. Can’t have you damaging yourself further, after all.”

Jon bites back another sigh. “I’ll take a while.”

“It’s past five, I don’t have much work left to do. Come, Jon. The sooner we start, the sooner we’re done.”

//

“Is Fifi coming by?” Tim asks, shutting off his computer and glancing at Sasha.

“No, I texted her and said that Jon’s wandered off,” Sasha says, finally finding the last pen and walking back to her desk.

“Hold on, some of those are mine!”

“Then you should have picked them up,” Sasha retorts, placing them neatly into her desk drawer. “Come on. Drinks?”

Tim yaws widely. “Nah, I’m going to head home. Try and get some sleep for tomorrow, you know?”

“Date?”

“No, I’m going to try and hunt a book down for Martin’s birthday.”

Sasha grimaces. “That’s coming up, isn’t it?”

“If I can, I’ll find two books, and you can pay me back,” Tim offers, and Sasha flashes him a smile.

“Thanks.”

“But only if you give me my pens back.”

“After you give me the book,” she bargains.

“Deal.”

The door to the Archives swings open. It’s a heavy door, admittedly, thick and solid and scuffed from years of use, and the handle sticks more often than not.

But it swings open, and Jon gingerly walks in.

Tim taps his bottom lip with his one remaining pen. “So, Sasha,” he says conversationally. “Did you just see what I just saw?”

“Yeah. Weightlifter cat, I guess.”

Jon pauses to give them both a thoroughly unimpressed look, and carefully picks his way over to the armchair.

“Did he step in something, or what?” Tim frowns, dropping his pen to his desk and standing. “He’s walking weird.”

Jon freezes, and turns to stare at Tim.

“Calm down, Jon, I’m not going to drop you,” Tim says, walking forward and unceremoniously scooping Jon into his arms. The pads on Jon’s feet look fine – a bit tender, considering how Jon hits Tim in the face when Tim prods at them, but fine.

“Anything?” Sasha asks.

Tim shrugs, and carefully sets Jon down in the armchair. “Nope. Guess he’s just sore.” He sighs. “Better go find Martin, I guess. Unless he’s going to conveniently appear right now so I don’t have to go searching?” Tim looks hopefully at the hallway for several long moments.

“…Just go look for him.”

“Yes, Sasha, ma’am.”

//

For once, Jon doesn’t complain when Martin carries him – not even in spirit. He aches too much for that, hands still cramping and eyes still aching. It’s better just to accept it, slump against Martin’s chest, and not bother to complain as Martin carefully deposits Jon on a chair at the kitchen table.

“I don’t know what you got into that hurt your feet so bad,” Martin says, “but you shouldn’t do that again. Okay?”

He’s probably going for stern, Jon muses. He definitely failed, but that was probably the tone Martin was going for.

“I’ll do my best,” Jon says. “Believe me, this is highly unpleasant.”

“Quick meal, and then Netflix in bed,” Martin says.

“I’m not sure if you spent so much time reading in bed before you started keeping me at your flat,” Jon says, “but I appreciate the chance to sleep. Seeing as I can’t exactly work here.”

“And I – well, I guess I won’t make enough for two or three meals, since you’ve shown that it doesn’t reheat well, does it?”

“I suppose it reheats quite well in theory, but plain vegetables are not exactly something I’d like to eat regardless.” Jon sighs, runs a hand over his face, remembers exactly how much his hands hurt and quickly stops the motion halfway through. “I apologize if I seem – _ungrateful._ I do appreciate this, though I admit I’d rather not be in this situation at all.”

“I hear you, baby. Just a few minutes,” Martin promises.

Jon gives up, and rests his head on the table.

//

The food takes a bit longer to prepare than Martin thought – probably not helped by the fact that he went back and forth between making his own dinner and making Jon’s. Granted, his own dinner was just a sandwich heated on the stove, but it still took his attention. Didn’t want the bread to burn, after all.

When he turns around though, two plates in hand, Jon is slumped over the table, fast asleep.

Martin sighs, a tad fondly, and keeps his footsteps quiet as he approaches the table, his movements gentle as he puts Jon’s food in front of him and prods Jon’s shoulder until he wakes up.

“Food first,” Martin prompts, sitting down across from Jon.

Jon gives him a bleary look, devours the food in a matter of seconds, and promptly lays back down again.

Martin huffs a small laugh. He doesn’t even try matching the speed at which Jon inhaled the food, instead taking his time with his sandwich. A few moments of rest at the table won’t kill Jon.

//

“Goodnight, Jon.”

Jon mrows softly, and curls further into Martin’s side.

“Goodnight,” Martin repeats softly, and flicks on the nightlight before settling into bed. He’s been having… _odd_ dreams, lately. The soft yellow light is a small comfort. (Jon’s a greater comfort, but Jon isn’t always here, and curling around a heating pad isn’t the same.)

“Goodnight,” Martin says a third time, and lays his head down.

(He doesn’t dream. Nor does Jon. But they sleep well.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> elias: owo what's this?
> 
> yeah so fair warning, the next two chapters will have no redeeming points whatsoever. pure crack and fluff. jon deserves a break ok
> 
> also i'd like to appreciate everybody who pointed out that actually there are a couple people from the mechanisms voicing characters in tma. conclusion: jon's college band really needs to get their shit together.


	22. Saturday, Day 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon gets a great deal of cuddles, and stays off his feet
> 
> Martin listens to a spooky podcast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay guys take this at face value. jon's tired from reading statements, he's not dealing with further spiral fuckery
> 
> boy's just getting cuddles and sleeping off a hard week, and not walking around because his feet are blistered as fuck

Jon’s gotten used to people burying their fingers in his hair. Tim, after picking Jon up and trapping him in Tim’s lap as he slowly spins in his chair. Sasha, when she perches on the back of the chair. Martin… quite literally whenever.

But waking up with someone’s fingers buried in his hair is different.

It’s Martin, obviously. Martin who’s curled around Jon, the hand deep in Jon’s hair keeping Jon’s head pressed against Martin’s shoulder. Martin who’s snoring softly, head resting directly on the mattress with the pillow knocked somewhere onto the floor. Martin who’s providing the vast majority of the warmth, since the blankets are pushed down somewhere by Jon’s elbows.

It’s warm, though.

Jon’s warm.

He lets his eyes close, and goes back to sleep.

//

Martin wakes with sun in his eyes and a cat sprawled on his chest, and can’t exactly find it in himself to be irritated about the sharp elbow sticking into his chests. Jon’s breathing slowly, deeply, and snuffles irritably when Martin prods at him.

Martin breaths a small sigh of relief. He’s – well, Jon fell into a brief coma. A bit of concern is probably justified.

His fur is quite pretty in the sunlight, silky and long, deep black streaked with grey and white and silver, silver stemming from his tattered ears and streaking down his back to meld with the white on his shoulders and the grey that came from his chest. He’s not exactly _cute_ , considering his bony form and sharp eyes and the bald scar on his foot, but he’s quite pretty. Distinguished.

…Composing poetry about a cat is a new low, Martin decides, one that he won’t stoop to unless absolutely necessary.

Martin fumbles for his phone, stretching and leaning and doing his best not to disturb Jon – it’s just barely within reach, stuck between the mattress and the bedframe, and Martin can grab it by the charger cord to pull it up.

It’s well past ten, and Martin probably ought to get up and get about his day, doing what functional adults did on the weekend, like call their parents, but Martin couldn’t summon the will to move and disturb Jon.

Well, the sun’s giving enough light as is, and Martin can reach his book.

“Tim’s shown you podcasts, hasn’t he?” Martin asks the cat presently asleep on his chest. “I don’t exactly listen to a lot – mostly news. It’s good to be informed, you know? But I like audiobooks. Don’t have one right now, though. I prefer to just – just have one form. Either reading or listening. It’s too hard to jump back and forth.”

Martin carefully puts his phone on the nightstand, and grabs his book. “I’m definitely not a trained audiobook narrator or anything,” he says, lightly petting Jon’s ear, “but I don’t think you’ll mind too much.” He opens the book, and clears his throat.

//

There’s a pleasant vibration under Jon’s ear, a gentle humming that slowly brings him to consciousness. As he gets closer and closer to the surface, Jon hears a soft voice talking, reading aloud and talking about darkfriends and a man named Mat.

When Jon finally opens his eyes, he’s treated to a view of soft, worn cotton, and very little else.

“You awake?”

…That’s Martin’s voice.

Jon’s sprawled on top of Martin.

“Sleep well?” Martin asks, gently stroking Jon’s hair. “You fell asleep at the table. I didn’t know cats could do that.”

Jon blinks, bleary. “I’m relatively certain cats can fall asleep in the same circumstances as humans,” he says, looking blankly at the cotton shirt that was presently all he could see. It’s an old band shirt, Jon thinks, washed so many times it’s soft and pliable.

And Martin’s wearing it.

Jon sits up, narrowly avoiding hitting Martin’s book, and rolls off of Martin’s chest – and the bed.

“Jon!” Martin yelps, as Jon stares up at the ceiling in confusion. The paint’s peeling, he notes absently, and then Martin’s face is in his line of sight again, and Jon’s being lifted with ease and placed back in Martin’s lap. “Don’t do that, okay? Don’t – you’re a clumsy little kitty, you shouldn’t do that,” Martin scolds. The book lies abandoned on the bed next to them, and Jon feels a brief moment of grief for Martin’s lost place. “Here,” Martin continues, picking Jon up and turning him.

Jon’s sitting with his back to Martin’s front now, legs splayed out in front like a small child’s. The leggings Jon had borrowed from Tim have slipped down in the night, cuffs now covering half of his feet, and god only knows where his socks and shoes ended up.

Still in the Archives, probably. Why would you bring a random pair of shoes home for your cat, after all?

“Come on, let’s take a look at your feet, okay?” Martin reaches around Jon, taking firm hold of Jon’s knee and bending Jon’s leg to get the foot in question within reach.

Jon tries to resist it. He utterly fails, and honestly isn’t sure if Martin even _noticed_ the slight bit of difficulty.

“See if you can walk better today,” Martin continues, trailing off into soft nothings as he shifts the cuff of Jon’s leggings up off his foot.

There are some… _quite_ unpleasant blisters. The balls of his feet and his heels are the worst off, entirely covered by thick blisters which, now that Jon’s aware of them, seem to be radiating heat up his feet and ankles. But the rest of his feet are hardly spared; blood blisters lurk between the pads of his toes and friction blisters line the inner sides of his feet, throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

Martin is kind, though, merely peering at Jon’s feet instead of performing a tactile investigation. “We’ll see, I guess,” he says after a moment. “If you can’t walk, you can’t walk.”

“I’d like to avoid that as much as possible, yes,” Jon says quickly. “I am aware there is a way to quickly pop and drain blisters, but as I have not had experience with that kind of action, I’d prefer to let these heal naturally.”

“I don’t think they make ice packs for kitty feet,” Martin muses, letting go of Jon’s foot and resting his hands on Jon’s lap.

Jon shifts, more than a bit uncomfortable. This could only end poorly, if – _once_ the Leitner’s effects are corrected, assuming Martin even remembers these events. A workplace harassment suit against Jon is probably impossible at this point, but Jon would rather not have to find new assistants. Regardless of his opinions on Martin’s work. And they are very, very close.

Martin’s warm, of course, Jon can’t complain about that, but it’s the casual intimacy that makes him feel like squirming. Of course, considering he’s presently nestled in Martin’s lap with absolutely no space between them, Jon stays still, stays still with Martin’s arms draped loosely around him, one hand still gently grasping Jon’s knee.

They’re both quiet, Martin’s breathing slow and even, Jon’s slightly less composed. The sounds of a busy Saturday morning filter through the window’s mostly-broken seal, and Jon can’t exactly complain about the space heater practically curled around him.

…Has Martin fallen asleep again?

Jon clears his throat. “I do hope you realize that, at the end of this, should you and Tim be too uncomfortable, I’ll put in a transfer request with Elias,” he says, rather stiffly. It’s the least he can do, really. He doesn’t exactly want to go back to research, not with the job in the Archives half-finished, but if he can convince Elias to put Sasha as the new Head Archivist, the job will be done well.

“Yeah, I’m hungry too,” Martin agrees. “Alright baby. Up we go!”

That’s the warning Jon has before he’s scooped into Martin’s arms, bridal style, and carried off the bed.

Jon yelps.

He probably should be used to it by now.

//

Jon doesn’t really move around a lot normally, not unless they’re in the Archives and he’s in search of a file. Or breaking into Artefact Storage, according to Tim.

But it’s still a bit worrying, that Martin deposited Jon on the couch after breakfast, and all Jon did was scoot over to lay on the Squishmallow, staring out in general boredom and meowing occasionally.

“I know Tim introduced you to podcasts,” Martin says, drying his hands from the dishes and joining Jon on the couch, “but I – well, I don’t really listen to comedy ones. I don’t like the jokes, usually. A lot of them just end up kind of mean, you know? I listened to _My Favorite Murder_ for a few years, but now I don’t like the kind of jokes.”

Jon meows, and Martin decides to take it as a meow of agreement. “But I do like scary podcasts. Or dramas. Not the Archers, though, that’s a bit much.”

Jon meows again.

“It’s really long,” Martin explains. “There’s too much to keep up on, I just gave up.” He pulls his phone out of his pocket, and scoots over to sit directly next to Jon. “Here. I don’t think Tim would have introduced you to _Lore_. The first episodes are a bit rough, I know, but it’s good.”

Martin’s pretty sure that Jon shrugs, and so Martin takes that as a ‘go ahead’ signal, turning on the first episode.

“Come here,” Martin says, reaching out for Jon. Jon doesn’t flail or roll away or glare viciously at Martin, which. Is probably as close to an ‘okay’ as Martin’s going to get.

By the time the narration starts, Martin has Jon settled in his lap, and a blanket spread over them both.

It’s cozy. It’s nice. It’s warm. All Martin needs is a cup of tea for the picture to be complete.

//

Jon dozes most of the afternoon, lulled to sleep by Martin’s gentle petting and the quiet, calm voice of the narrator. Martin wasn’t lying about the writing being a bit rough in the first couple episodes, but it progresses nicely. He never gets an episode in full, falling asleep and waking up at unknown intervals, hearing bits of one story and small fragments of the next.

But it’s warm. It’s nice. And Jon can’t really complain.

…He’ll thank Martin again once they get up, apologize again, but that’s a ways away.

It’s warm. It’s nice. And Jon doesn’t want to get up.

//

Martin’s stomach grumbles around eight, long past the proper time for dinner and well through Lore’s archived episodes – not loudly enough to wake Jon, thankfully. Jon, who’s spent the day sleeping off an on in Martin’s lap, stretched out across the couch and taking up a surprising amount of space. Like cats often do, of course, but still. And it’s not the dead, comatose type of sleep that worried them a few days ago; no, Jon stirs regularly, snuffles irritably when Martin moves him, purrs sometimes when he wakes and Martin’s gently stroking his ears. It’s a sweet picture, and Martin almost wishes that Tim was here so somebody could _take_ an actual picture.

But nobody lives with Martin, and Martin’s getting hungry.

He doesn’t turn off the podcast – they’ve gotten to the point where the writing’s gotten more polished and nice, and it’s nice having background noise. That’s probably why Tim listens to so many, why Sasha’s always listening to music. Sasha has tinnitus, Martin knows, but Tim just likes noise.

Martin scratches Jon’s ears one more time, and carefully shifts the blankets.

Jon doesn’t stir.

Martin carefully shifts Jon to the couch, stands, and all Jon does is curl into the warm spot Martin’s left.

“Give me a bit, and then we’ll have dinner,” Martin promises, stepping away from the couch.

There’s leftover carryout from a few days before, Martin knows, and he got a spice blend last weekend.

The things he does for a cat, really.

But the resulting food smells nice enough that Martin thinks he himself wouldn’t mind eating it, and the carryout is just as good as it was the first day.

Jon stirs when Martin picks him up, carries him to the table.

“If you were a person, I’d just say we’d eat on the couch this once,” Martin says, depositing Jon in a chair. “But I don’t want food all over my couch. Don’t want to get in trouble with my landlord, you know?”

Jon meows blearily, and grabs a piece of chicken.

“Good?” Martin asks, holding a hand to his mouth as he speaks through a bite of lo mein.

Jon meows.

“Thanks, I thought you’d like the spices.”

Jon looks just about ready to fall asleep at the table, drowsy and bleary and clumsy in his eating.

Martin sighs. “Finish eating, I’ll do the dishes, and we’ll listen to _Lore_ in bed, okay?” he bargains.

He’s bargaining with a cat.

This is his life now.

But Jon meows again, and Martin takes it as agreement.

//

The mattress may not be the most comfortable, but Jon can’t find it in himself to care. Not when he’s allowed to curl into Martin’s side, feet throbbing but not unbearably, covered in half a dozen blankets.

It’s warm. It's cozy. It’s nice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wasn't kidding when i said there's gonna be No Plot. but seriously, how successful was i in making Adorable content?   
> also you have no idea how tempting it was to put an Ominous Comment at the end


	23. Sunday, Day 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is back to normal.
> 
> Martin listens to the news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter short chapter short chapter short chapter
> 
> "jon's back to normal" aka jon's grouchy

Once again, it’s Martin’s voice filtering through Jon’s dreams that slowly brings Jon to consciousness. It’s the same book, Jon thinks, unless Martin has multiple books with a character named Mat and Rand.

(It’s the book Martin took away the first week. Jon’s sure of that. The One Power and Aes Sedai are rather distinctive terms, and Jon’s rather bitter about the whole situation.)

(Well, the book and the pain in his feet, which still radiated up his ankles with throbbing heat that pulsed in time with his heartbeat.)

Martin finishes the chapter before stopping, thankfully. Finishes the chapter, stuffs a stray piece of paper in as a bookmark, and puts the book aside before looking down at Jon.

Jon’s decided to eschew embarrassment about waking up lying between Martin’s legs, his head pillowed on Martin’s stomach, in favor of being quite warm and surprisingly comfortable. Martin wore a sweater to bed, apparently, a soft yellow thing with impressive cabling and feels like actual wool.

“You awake, Jon?” Martin asks, reaching down to gently pet Jon’s head.

“Unless the pain in my feet has filtered into my dreams,” Jon quips, “then yes, I am.”

“I’m guessing you’re hungry,” Martin says, carefully shoving at Jon’s shoulders and sitting up.

Jon goes willingly to avoid ending up face-down in Martin’s lap, quickly rolling to the side – towards the wall this time, _not_ the edge of the bed.

“Are you awake enough to walk, or should I carry you again?” Martin looks – not concerned, per say, but not indulgent, either.

Jon grimaces. Should Martin not guess correctly, then today would be… unpleasant, to say the least. “I am conscious enough, yes,” he says, “but I would rather not. I’m afraid I don’t have enough experience with this kind of blister to know what kind of activity is safe.”

Martin sighs, and carefully runs a fingertip from Jon’s hairline down the bridge of his nose. “I’ll take a look at your feet again after breakfast,” he promises. “But I guess I shouldn’t risk it, should I? I don’t – well, I don’t know where to even _find_ a vet on a Sunday morning.”

Jon doesn’t even flail when Martin picks him up, neatly settling Jon in his arms so Jon’s in a pseudo-sitting position, perched delicately on one arm with another under his knees.

It’s certainly a change, but not one Jon minds. A bit precarious for his liking, but at least he can see where they’re going.

“You’re certainly a bit more alert today,” Martin says conversationally, depositing Jon in a kitchen chair and wandering towards the fridge.

“I do feel better,” Jon admits, running a hand over his head and grimacing in dismay. “I – of course, I apologize, Martin, for yesterday. My only defense is that I really was quite tired, and wasn’t precisely aware of everything. But thank you, of course, for – for indulging me. I hope that, when this is all over, you won’t be too terribly angry with me.” He sighs. “Elias has told me that I’m still being paid, despite everything. It will take a few days for the backpay to come in, assuming my bank account is affected somehow by all this, but once it does, please tell me how much I owe you for food and such.”

“Definitely feeling better,” Martin agrees, “if you’re back to being so chatty. Making up for yesterday?”

Jon sighs, sliding his hairtie onto his wrist and carefully fingercombing the very end of his braid. This would be much easier with oil.

…This would be much easier with a pair of _scissors_ , but Jon refuses to give his grandmother that much satisfaction, even post-mortem.

“I’m not sure if you liked the spices I used yesterday, but I made a bit too much, so you’ll have to stomach through it again today, okay?”

“I honestly cannot remember eating yesterday, but I’m sure it’s fine,” Jon says.

It may take him all day, but he _will_ untangle his hair.

//

“I’m not going to go back to the beginning, but I don’t think you’ll mind listening to _Lore_ again today, will you?” Martin asks, picking Jon up and carting him over to the couch. “Oh! First.”

Jon sighs, dread welling in his stomach and travelling up his throat until it chokes him, makes him feel on the verge of throwing up. He doesn’t want to look at his feet, and very much would rather Martin not touch them.

“I don’t know if it’s – maybe you ripped your claws out after we got you?” Martin sighs, face twisting into a sad expression. “But I know we need to keep an eye on your feet. Maybe there were complications from the surgery.”

“I can’t give specifics on what happened, but I am reasonably certain there was no surgery involved,” Jon offers, rolling the leggings up so Martin has unfettered access to his feet.

Martin, thankfully, does not poke at the blisters. Jon, thankfully, does not have a clear view of the blisters.

But Martin’s expression doesn’t change. “Your feet are still a different color,” he says, carefully letting go of Jon’s feet and sitting on the couch next to Jon. “Which – I guess that’s something to watch.”

“Perhaps look up what blisters look like on cats,” Jon offers, twisting awkwardly in an attempt to get his legs up on the couch in a way that doesn’t put pressure on his feet. “Unless the illusion is making it something different.”

Martin sighs. “Whatever it is, I’m going to use it as an excuse about not calling my mother.”

“That is perfectly understandable.”

“So. _Lore_ time.”

Jon sighs, and tries to pull another section of his braid apart. “I don’t suppose I could further bother you by asking for a comb.”

Martin just pulls out his phone, and turns on the next episode.

//

The unfortunate reality about keeping hair in one style for over a day is that the parts of the hair that have remained in that style would like to continue remaining in that style.

Which is to say, it’s well past five, god only knows how many episodes of _Lore_ they’ve gone through, and Jon’s only halfway through his braid. His hair’s quite long, quite thick, and quite unruly, but still.

“I don’t suppose you have any idea about dinner?” Martin asks once the current episode ends, grabbing his phone to pause the next. “I mean, I don’t exactly have any bone broth left, and I don’t feel like going to the store.”

“Martin –” Jon sighs, cutting off whatever scathing remark was going to come out. “I apologize, I’m rather frustrated at the moment. I imagine you’ll have whatever comes to mind.”

“You still haven’t put on enough weight, but it’s not exactly like I can feed you frozen lasagna.”

Jon looks down at himself critically.

He can’t exactly see a difference, but ridiculously oversized clothes will do that.

“Cat food for you, something undecided for me,” Martin says, opening the fridge. “Something hopefully appetizing.” He opens the freezer. “Nothing looks appetizing.”

Jon sighs again, digging his fingers into his braid. This would be more pleasant if his hair weren’t _greasy_.

“…Tea first, and we’ll deal with dinner later. Since we’ve established that you drink tea.”

Jon makes a purposeful fall, flopping sideways onto the couch and resting his head on the cushion. “Anything you decide to give me, I’ll be happy with. I – well, I couldn’t help even if I would walk, but now I suppose it’s exacerbated.”

Martin hums as he puts on the kettle, a vague melody that probably belongs to some pop song or another. It’s not something Jon recognizes, but it’s pleasant enough. It’s nice. And Jon’s warm.

“Are _you_ hungry, though?” Martin asks. “I can’t find anything I want to eat, but I could put something together for you.”

“Whatever you want to do, Martin. I’m not exactly going to demand one way or another, considering what you’re doing for me.”

Martin drums his fingertips against the countertop for a moment. “I’ll wait,” he decides. “After tea. It’s easier to deal with both at once, I think, and a few hours won’t make you any skinnier than you are.”

“I don’t think I’m that bad, Martin.”

And then the kettle shrieks.

They’re quite convenient in ending conversations, apparently.

When this ends, should Jon ever have friends, he might want to invest in one.

//

“I don’t like watching the news. It’s all a bit – well, you can’t find any kind of unbiased news reports, you know?” Martin sighs, clasping his mug of tea between both hands.

Jon’s mug is placed on the coffee table, which has been pulled up to the couch, so a cat could conceivably lean over from their seat and drink. It’s a sweet thought. Jon has no idea what Martin sees when he picks up the mug and drinks normally, and decides that he doesn’t quite care about that particular detail.

“Podcasts are better. They’re honest about what’s paying them, at least.” Martin huffs a surprisingly cynical laugh. “But here. Come on, Jon.”

Jon puts down his tea and turns to look at Martin, only to be gently tugged into laying in Martin’s lap.

Well, laying on top of Martin is warmer than merely sitting under a throw blanket.

“I don’t suppose it matters that much, though, unless your previous owners were news broadcasters. Or conservative.”

“I believe my grandmother would have played _Ding Dong, The Witch Is Dead_ when Margaret Thatcher died, had she still been alive.”

Martin sighs, and buries his hand again in Jon’s hair.

Jon groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I – this is a minor inconvenience, but Martin…” He sighs. “I’m not to my scalp yet, but you’re not making this easy.”

Martin taps at his phone for a moment, turns the volume down considerably before pressing play. The intro music is jarring enough to explain Martin’s caution.

Jon’s left with one hand to work with, the other largely trapped beneath him, but he does his best to return his attention to his hair. He’d very much like to be able to wash it the moment they get to the Archives, but if it’s still in this state, a shower would be delayed significantly.

//

Jon’s sitting in bed, waiting for Martin to appear to turn off the lights and turn the nightlight on, when he finally finishes his braid, finally is able to run his hand from scalp to the tips of his hair without issue.

It’s quite satisfying.

And when Martin comes to bed, curls up around Jon, he does the same thing. And it does feel quite nice.

Not nice enough for Jon to keep his hair down – no, he’s not enough of a masochist to do that. But it feels pleasant enough. 

It's what puts Jon to sleep. That, and Martin's gentle scratching at his scalp. That, and the warmth. That, and the pressure of the blankets.

That, and Martin's company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plot comes back thursday, don't worry  
> or do worry for a completely different reason since we also get a new episode on thursday so rip


	24. Monday, Day 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin finds a mug of tea.
> 
> Sasha and Tim go to war.
> 
> Jon has to reassemble multiple statements.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm just gonna base all of sasha and tim's collective shenaniganry directly off of shit i've done with my sister. they're siblings now.
> 
> also! last chapter, feets changed colors! according to a ten minute google search i did while writing that, that's how blistered cat feet look like. so be afraid, but not for spiral reasons

Showering with heavily blistered feet, Jon discovers, is… an adventure, one that consists of awkwardly shifting between kneeling and sitting and quite a lot of wincing as he moves a bit too ambitiously and puts pressure on a blister. An adventure made all the more difficult by the fact that Gertrude was fearless for her age and didn’t have a mat put in the shower to prevent slipping. Which is something Jon will be investing in, considering how many times he overbalanced and nearly broke his skull open against the wall.

That’d be a way to end this mess. Go in search of the smell and look at that, there’s a dead man in the shower who may or may not have been living with varying Archival Assistants and who also was the Head Archivist.

Jon sighs, and turns the water off.

Showering was an adventure.

But Jon’s not looking forward to struggling into Martin’s clothes. (Light blue sweater and old grey jeans that were probably used the last time he painted a bedroom. No socks. Socks hurt. Bare feet in winter also hurt, but no socks. Also, he still has a pair of Tim’s socks in the Archives somewhere.)

But at least his hair is clean and detangled. Maybe he ought to look into leave-in shampoo and conditioner, perhaps leave some at Tim’s and Martin’s. They haven’t noticed his toothbrush, after all.

…Provided this lasts another weekend.

//

“Why are we breaking into the Archivist’s office?” Martin asks lowly, peering back over his shoulder – unnecessary, considering the only other person in the Archives that is not a cat is Sasha, and she’s busy with her music.

“It doesn’t count as breaking in if it’s unlocked,” Tim says.

“It’s not unlocked.”

“But it will be.” Tim scowls at the lock again, doing something to it that Martin’s deciding to ignore because he doesn’t want to be _too much_ of an accessory to a crime. “Aha!”

“Tim…”

“Come on, if our little cat burglar can come and go, I don’t think there’s any reason we shouldn’t. Maybe we can find some interesting work.”

“You just want to find out where those romance novels went,” Martin accuses – but he follows Tim into the office.

“Well, _yeah_.” Tim gives Martin a look. “Are you acting like you aren’t curious about what our cluttered mess of a previous archivist read?”

“You saw those covers! I am _not_!” Martin insists, flicking on the light.

The place is still a mess. Files stacked in jumbled piles, old books that probably ought to be in Artefact Storage, pens of varying quality scattered over every surface, what looks like an overnight bag half-stuffed under the desk, and to Martin’s horror, a mug of fresh tea.

Tim, however, is busy rifling through bookshelves and boxes, flicking through papers and impatiently moving things out of his way in search of the dirty romance novels that had gone missing. He kicks at the bag absentmindedly, shoving it further under the desk and out of the way.

“Tim…”

“I know, I won’t take long. Go stand watch, if you want.” Tim’s voice is dismissive.

“No, that’s not –”

“Look, I’ll look through the bookcases, and then we’ll come back later for the desk and the boxes everywhere.”

“No, Tim!”

“ _What_?” Tim shoves the file back into place on the shelf, and whirls on Martin.

“That’s fresh tea,” Martin says simply, pointing to the mug. A mug that had been on the drying rack that morning when Tim first came in.

“…So? You brought it in with us, I guess?”

“Tim.” Martin shakes his head, eyes wide. “I didn’t make that tea.”

Tim looks at the tea for a moment, then at Martin. “Right. Okay. Let’s not come back for the desk.”

“Let’s just go,” Martin agrees, turning immediately for the door, and promptly tripping over Jon.

Jon didn’t just yowl – Jon _screeched_ like he’d been shot, collapsing onto his side and curling in around his feet.

“Did you just murder our cat?” Tim demands as Martin quickly scoops Jon up. There’s a bit of a panicked look in Martin’s eyes as he looks Jon over, looks at the splotchy discoloration of Jon’s feet and the thoroughly unimpressed look on Jon’s face.

“Well, he’s fine enough to be unimpressed,” Martin says.

Jon meows dryly.

“Definitely unimpressed,” Tim agrees. “Let’s – let’s just take him away from where the definitely-not-a-serial-killer, maybe-a-ghost, left their tea. Let’s just. Go.”

Martin agrees, quickly stepping past the file that had fallen out of Jon’s mouth. Files.

“Our arcatvist had three – nope, _four_ – files in his mouth,” Tim announces after a moment. “And he’s going to hate me more than he hates you, because I have no idea what goes in what file.”

Martin sighs, looking down at Jon.

Jon stares up at him, mismatched eyes stubbornly unimpressed.

“Should we talk to Elias about the –” Martin gestures with his head in the general direction of the Archivist’s office, a helpless little grimace on his face.

“The mug of tea behind a locked door?” Tim finishes. “A door that neither of us has a key to, or reason to break in to?”

Jon meows.

“Yeah, it’s a bit incriminating,” Tim agrees.

“What did you two _do_?” Sasha asks, exasperated, and Martin jumps. Jon’s nearly collateral, nearly falling to the floor in a graceless pile, but he flails backwards in Martin’s arms and survives the scare.

Jon’s files do not, and Tim drops them again.

“We,” Tim says after a brief second of staring wide-eyed at Sasha, “are trying to help Jon get back to the armchair.”

Jon meows indignantly, and Tim nods.

“Yes, his feet are still quite painful, and we thought it best to help him get from the Archives back to his preferred space of work,” he continues. “Martin is his humble chariot and I, weakling that I am, am the record bearer.”

Sasha raises an eyebrow. “You’ve stuffed two files inside another and you’re carrying another empty file,” she says.

“Well, there was a bit of a scuffle –”

Sasha cuts Tim off with a small laugh, shaking her head and putting an earbud back in. “Come on, you two. Back to work. And leave Jon alone!”

Tim glances at Jon. “Meow if you want us to put you down.”

Jon stays silent.

“To the armchair, then!”

//

“I appreciate your – rescuing me, I guess,” Jon says in Martin’s general direction as he spreads the papers out in front of him in yet a different order in an attempt to figure out what goes with which file, “but I locked the door precisely because I wanted to avoid –” Jon sighs. “Well, when a cat, I guess. Thank you for not kicking me while I was down. Not kicking me twice, I should say.”

“See, Jon agrees with me!” Tim says, pointing a pen emphatically in Jon’s direction. “Elias’ suit _does_ clash with his shoes.”

“His suit is grey and his shoes are black.” Sasha doesn’t look up from her work. (Tim, in all fairness, is on hold with some hospital staff.)

“His suit is grey and his shoes are black and his socks are black and they’re _all different shades_ ,” Tim insists. “That grey should go with – yes ma’am, I’m still here, thanks for getting back to me!” The change is as clean and even as flicking a switch, from righteous and irate to friendly and cheerful. Even Tim’s expression changes. “Yes, calling about one Mister Finn Callihan? From March?” Tim hums sympathetically into the phone, making a silly face at Martin as the person on the other end goes on. “Thank you very much, ma’am! Have a nice day.” He puts the phone down, and takes a deep breath. “That grey should go with brown, not black! Martin, back me up on this!”

“…They’re all neutrals,” Martin says into his tea.

“I think I side with Tim, if I’m thinking of the same suit,” Jon offers absently, frowning as he tries to match up the handwriting. “It’s an odd undertone, but black definitely doesn’t suit it. Is he wearing the green tie with it?”

“And that tie clashes too!” Tim continues. “It’s – sure, it’s probably a nice tie, but green just makes the whole thing _worse_!”

“Look, let’s just have Martin take Elias jumper shopping, and then we’ll all be happy,” Sasha says. “Martin gets to push soft cardigans or whatever on somebody –” Martin flushes. “—and Elias ends up in something that makes him look like a normal human being.”

“As opposed to a sexist piece of –”

“ _Tim._ ” Sasha warns.

“—who never left the sixties?” Tim finishes, making an innocent face at Sasha.

Sasha takes her prized spare hairtie, and shoots it at Tim.

“I’ll just go. Staple.” Martin scurries out of the room, and Jon looks heavenwards with an exasperated expression as pens join the fray, _again_.

“Tim, did you manage to put another statement in with these?” Jon asks, dragging a hand down his face. “My notes are all jumbled up, too.”

“ _You’ll never take me alive_!”

//

“Okay. I have an old camera at home.”

“Why do you have an old camera, Tim?”

“That’s not important. I have an old camera. I’ll bring it tomorrow, we’ll set it up in the office, and see if we have actual reason to talk to Elias!”

“You’re suggesting we try and track down whoever left a cup of tea in the Archivist’s office?”

“Nobody has a key, Martin! Nobody but Elias, and Elias definitely wasn’t down there!”

“…Alright.”

“You’re with me?”

“If I say no, it won’t stop you. So I'm in."

//

“Spicy food time,” Tim crows at Jon when the clocks hit five – which is to say, when his alarm for two minutes past five goes off, prompting Sasha to shut down her work and stand. “Don’t worry, Sash, I’ll clean up from our little war.”

“And lose my hostage for Martin’s present?” Sasha scoffs, wandering around the room and gathering up pens. “ _And_ lose my hairtie? I’m not accepting either.”

Tim laughs, spinning in his chair. “You know that wasn’t me that stole it last time, right?”

“I put nothing past you,” Sasha delicately steps past Tim, grabs a red Sharpie that had mercifully kept its lid on during the battle. “My hairtie went missing, and it’s not like Fifi needs it.”

“Or Vivian,” Tim chimes.

“You’re just proud you remember her name.”

“Well, she’s overshadowed by such a glorious animal, can you blame me?”

“She can.”

Tim sighs, slowing his spin so he can stare mournfully at Jon. “I’ll put a word in with Elias, we’ll get you as the new Archivist if you promise to fire her,” he says in a stage-whisper. “She’s mean.”

Sasha lightly hits Tim upside the head, and he yelps. But then she drops half a dozen pens on his desk.

“This – I lost significantly more men to our fight than this.” Tim gives Sasha an accusatory look.

“Well, my women have decided that your men are further collateral until you give me something I want.”

Tim raises his eyebrows.

“Any progress on Martin’s birthday present?”

Tim groans, and glances towards the breakroom. “Is he even in earshot? He’s a quiet bastard, Sasha, you can’t count on these things!”

“Book, Stoker. Book.”

“No, nothing yet.” Tim sighs. “Go home, let me torment the office cat.”

“The one who’s spent the past day trying to play solitaire with some files?”

“That’s the one!”

“Be nice to Jon,” Martin scolds, as if summoned by the mere concept of vaguely irritating Jon.

Tim just grins charmingly at Martin. “My turn with him tonight,” he says, laughing slightly when Martin frowns a bit. “You need a real cat. Exclusively for yourself. A sole guardian situation.”

“How do you know Jon would play well with another cat, though?” Martin points out.

“Just a thought,” Tim says cheerfully.

//

Tim’s mattress is probably quite expensive, but Jon can’t help but be jealous.

“Goodnight, Jon,” Tim says, brushing a gentle kiss against Jon’s forehead.

Jon opens his mouth to offer some kind of apology and assurance, more out of habit than anything else, but Tim’s already wrapped his arm around Jon and pulled him close. And Jon would rather apologize in the morning than get a mouthful of slightly damp shoulder, because Tim’s sleeping in a shirt where the sleeves appear to have been cut off with safety scissors in a fit of pique.

So he lays there, and doesn’t move as Tim kisses the top of his head.

“Goodnight, Tim.” It’s admittedly rather muffled, but Jon makes an effort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay not exactly spiral leitner plot heavy, but i promise, there's shit set in motion in this chapter  
> also fun fact i'm still halfway through 162, this is just getting bad


	25. Tuesday, Day 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim finds a camera and climbs a bookshelf. 
> 
> Jon discovers how to purr.
> 
> Martin gets spooked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does anybody have advice for incorporating song lyrics into text, because i can't find any way that i like

“The fun thing about moving recently,” Tim says in Jon’s general direction as he shoves the box back under his bed, “is that I have no bloody clue where anything is.”

“I’d offer to help, but I don’t know how that would work,” Jon says absently, sipping at his coffee with a small grimace. It’s not exactly his favorite, not exactly something he’d usually tolerate, but Tim’s out of tea and had a bottle of iced coffee in the fridge. And also hasn’t noticed Jon taking a cup of said coffee.

“‘I’ll bring in my old camera,’” Tim mocks, “‘we’ll set it up, see if we can find anything interesting.’” He yanks out another box, rifles through neatly stacked books. “Easier said than fucking done.”

“Maybe in your closet?” Jon suggests. He’s sitting cross-legged on the foot of Tim’s bed, carefully balanced, coffee held awkwardly away from himself so there’s little chance of it splashing on Tim’s bedspread. “I believe it might make a bit more sense than putting it in with your books.”

Tim shoves the current box away, and pulls himself into a kneeling position, hands resting on his thighs. “I am _this close_ to buying a cheap camera from Amazon,” he declares, standing and brushing imaginary dust from his knees. “One last try.”

“Closet?” Jon suggests again.

“Closet,” Tim declares. “It’s not like sticking it with clothes makes any more sense than anywhere else I’ve looked.”

“Ah, if you want to avoid traffic…” Jon says, a bit awkwardly. “You’re still not dressed, and it’s almost half five.” Jon had already stolen his present outfit, ill-fitting shirt and jacket and trousers with the hems rolled up multiple times. At least leggings bunch neatly up around his ankles, he muses mournfully. But he can’t complain. Not really. He’d tried sneaking some of his clothes in with Martin’s laundry, but that had just gotten his shirt donated with a confused expression. Jon’s not going to be deducting the cost of that shirt from what he owes Martin, he’s not quite that mean, but it had been one of his favorites, and Jon is admittedly not over it.

Tim stalks out of the room, still grumbling under his breath, and Jon limps after him. Walking on the sides of his feet hurt his ankles, hurt his blisters, but it’s better than walking normally (which he outright refuses to risk) or on his knees (his grandmother had gotten arthritis young, which is a risk Jon refuses to exacerbate.

“Success!” Tim cheers, loudly enough that Jon flinches, nearly overbalances, nearly spills his coffee. “Why it’s in there, I got no clue.”

Jon shifts. “Ah. Time to go?”

Tim glances at the display on his stove. “…Guess we’re stopping for breakfast. If you throw up what I get you, I’m going to be mad.”

At least this way, Jon can get a look at the actual receipt, get a proper idea of what he’ll owe Tim.

//

A pastry is not exactly the most balanced breakfast, even Jon knows that, but it’s what Tim gets him from the shop near the Institute, and Jon doesn’t complain. It’s warm and filled with apple jam, which is what counts.

“Now,” Tim says conspiratorially as Jon licks the last bit of stickiness from his fingertips, “I guess I have ten hours of tape. I’ll be recording over some kind of garbage from high school, but I don’t really care about that. The real thing is, testing.” He picks the camera up from his desk, and points it at Jon. “Smile!”

Jon smiles awkwardly, and waves. “Hello,” he offers. “Ah, there’s probably some change in my desk that would cover the pastry.”

Tim turns off the camera, and grins at Jon. “Well, no idea if this works until I hunt down a VCR player,” he says cheerfully, “but that shouldn’t take too long. Sasha’s grandmother lives an hour away, worst comes to worst. Now come on, evil bastard cat who eats pastries like a human.”

“I am a human.”

“You’re right, it’s absolutely espionage time, and I’m dragging you along because Martin’s not here yet!”

“Tim, it’s not even seven –” Jon protests, but Tim’s already scooping him up, dropping the camera in Jon’s lap, and walking purposefully towards Jon’s office. “…Well then. I don’t think this could be considered a safe place for your camera,” Jon says, even as he takes a firm hold on said camera.

“Awww, you’re holding it with your little feets,” Tim coos, glancing down at Jon.

Jon stares up with a deadpan expression.

“Come on, co-conspirator, you’ve already committed felonies galore –”

“Using my own office is not a felony –”

“—so what’s some illegal, extrajudicial surveillance? For the good of the team.” Tim smiles winningly at Jon, carefully plopping him down across the hallway from the door to Jon’s office and taking the camera back.

“I think that this would be a matter best taken up with Elias, since there’s already security in the Archives,” Jon points out, “but… I think it’s a bit too late for that.”

“I agree, I’m surprised the door is still unlocked, considering our ghost-slash-serial-killer cohabitant,” Tim says, walking into Jon’s office.

“I couldn’t exactly lock it behind me,” Jon retorts, digging his fingertips into the bags under his eyes in a desperate attempt to alleviate the tension to some degree.

“Yeah, I know it’s probably immoral, but I’m not letting this place be haunted by a serial killer!” Tim calls from the office. From Jon’s seat, he can see Tim precariously climb one of the bookcases in the corner, using the wall as a counterbalance, until he can reach the top and settle the camera.

“…Martin will probably be disappointed in you,” Jon mutters under his breath, and says no more. Despite how much he may want to complain about Tim leaving shoeprints on the shelf.

“Alright,” Tim says, clapping his hands together as he leaves the scene of the crime and closes the door behind him. “You want help getting back to the armchair?”

Jon sighs, and holds his arms out in assent.

//

“Did you…?”

“Yeah, I got the camera.”

“And –”

“And got it placed. You got a VCR player?”

“Tim, I don’t even have a _TV_.”

“Keep your voice down! Sasha will definitely get us in trouble.”

“Sasha will call us idiots and make us staple files.”

“Same difference. Come on, if Sasha’s grandmother doesn’t have one, we can probably rent one.”

“I don’t think we can.”

“Don’t be like that, we can definitely figure this out!”

//

“Do you know where that file went?” Sasha asks, tapping her pen against her desk.

“The one we finished working on yesterday?”

“Yeah. I was going to try and record it today.”

Tim shrugs. “I definitely didn’t take it. Martin?”

Martin shakes his head.

Jon sighs. “For what it’s worth, I recorded it while you were on lunch. As an… experiment. If it doesn’t work, I’ll bring it back. I’d like to have a productive reason for being this tired, and a short delay won’t do much,” he says, flicking through his notes _yet again_. The last time he’d spent this much time on a single subject, he’d had a point to prove about German history to his roommate. It had taken him three weeks to compile enough proof, and his mind had been left spinning with German names for a week and a half.

Death was one way to break the Leitner’s influence, though he’d very much rather _avoid_ that. And… that was the only confirmed way.

Maybe Elias had some opinions.

“Maybe it’s been taken by your scary Archives ghost,” Sasha teases, laughing when Tim makes a face at her.

“I’m just saying, fresh cups of tea don’t spawn miraculously behind closed doors. This isn’t a video game, the office isn’t a save point.”

“I thought you just played _The Sims_?”

Tim shrugged. “I also play platformers.”

“Like Mario?”

“Eh, not my favorite. Ever heard of _Dark Souls_?”

“Tim, that is not a platformer!” Sasha laughs. “…But which one is your favorite?”

//

“ _Do you see the way they’re starting to look at me_ …” Jon croons absently under his breath, staring intently at the page in front of him. “ _…send me out your very best…_ ” There has to be _something_ else he can get from these. Perhaps if Gertrude had kept the Archives in a better state, it would be easier to deal with this, easier to find relevant statements, easier to find _any_ kind of information. “ _Don’t be ridiculous, man up, this is it…_ ”

“Awww, he’s purring! Listen to that, he’s like a lawnmower!” It’s Sasha who says this, to Jon’s surprise – her playlist must have ended.

Jon stares at her, wide-eyed. Is _that_ what he sounds like?

“And now you’ve made a scene, and he’s stopped.” Tim pouts at Sasha. “Come on, are you sad now?”

“Should we be concerned?” Martin gnaws at the end of his pen. “I read that cats purr for bad reasons, too.”

“…Well, he’s survived this long,” Tim points out. “Maybe he’s just happy.”

“Maybe…”

Jon narrows his eyes, and glances from assistant to assistant. “It’s not like this will go well regardless of what I do,” he sighs. And he starts the song over.

“See! He’s fine! He’s purring again, he was probably just surprised by Sasha!”

Sasha laughs at Tim, and turns pointedly back to her work.

//

“Okay, so I didn’t find the book,” Tim begins, linking arms with Sasha as they leave the Institute and leaning in conspiratorially, “ _but_ you won’t believe what I found instead.”

“Is it something expensive enough we can split?”

“Not really, but we can get him a beanie or some weird socks to go with it, fit his general aesthetic.” Tim grins at Sasha. “I found a Polaroid camera.”

Sasha’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not! Ten pounds.”

Sasha whistles lowly. “You got it, right?”

An offended look flashes across Tim’s face. “Of course I did! You find the socks or hat or whatever, and we’ll call it good?”

Sasha nods.

“ _And_ you’ll give me my pens back?”

“Mm, about that.” Sasha shrugs, unsympathetic. “I’m afraid they’ve defected to my side. They like having company with manners, you know?”

Tim shoves her unceremoniously, and Sasha just laughs at him.

//

“I feel a bit silly,” Martin confesses, gently stroking Jon’s ears, “but… yeah. We’re doing this.”

_This_ is sitting with Jon in Martin’s lap, directly next to the door out of the Archives.

“It’s spooky enough here already, but that... I mean, I’m not _paranoid_ , I just don’t like it.”

Jon sighs, and resists the urge to hide his face in his hands. “I’ll make sure to keep my tea out of my locked office,” he says.

Martin sighs. “I mean, it’s probably nothing,” he says, “but it’s. It’s spooky.”

Jon awkwardly pats Martin’s shoulder. “I apologize for scaring you, then,” he says, as sincerely as he can muster considering the sheer _ridiculousness_ of the situation. “I’ll just. Like I said, I’ll keep my tea to the breakroom.”

Martin’s hand drifts to the back of Jon’s head, carefully stroking through Jon’s loose hair. (The tension headache had gotten the best of him today.) “Purring is supposed to be comforting. I’m not suggesting you knead my leg or whatever, but…?”

Jon stares at Martin for a moment. “You’re essentially asking me to sing to you.”

But Martin looks _hopeful_ , and Jon’s unfortunately grown too soft-hearted through this whole thing.

So he sings. Quietly, but sings nonetheless.

Does the general mood of the song vary his tone, Jon wonders? Would a harsh song sound like yowling, and only quieter songs sound like purring?

That’s an experiment for a different day, he decides. When his head doesn’t hurt, and his feet have healed enough that he can make a hasty retreat should need be.

//

“I draw the line at singing you to sleep, Martin,” Jon says, pulling the blankets up to his chin and twisting to face Martin.

“Tim says this helps you sleep,” Martin says, leaning forwards and gently brushing a kiss across Jon’s forehead.

“…Well, you could have done something significantly more objectionable,” Jon admits. “Goodnight, Martin.”

“Night, Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song jon sings is "we can starts a fire" by autoheart. he doesn't want sources of ignition in his archives but songs are fair game. and also it was what came on while i was writing that scene.  
> also i'm keeping the bedtime scenes in for the foreseeable future, because Somft and i like writing them


	26. Wednesday, Day 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's in a bit of pain.
> 
> Martin makes pierogi.
> 
> Sasha's grandmother is discussed.
> 
> Tim bargains. 
> 
> Michael appears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shit's normal, yall. not dreadfully normal, but normal  
> also let's appreciate that jon's been putting up with this shit for three weeks

There are a great deal of eyes surrounding him, unblinking. Eyes of every color, some bloodshot, some not, some cloudy with cataracts and some filled with blood.

What is it about Martin’s flat, Jon wonders, that brings nightmares to him with such ease?

And what is it about the eyes, the silence, that leave him so… coherent?

//

“I don’t know how bad pierogi is for cats,” Martin says as he bundles up lunch, “but I – my babcia sent me her pierogi recipe, and I made it yesterday. And there’s enough for the both of us, so we’re having pierogi for lunch.”

“Martin, I cannot emphasize how much I don’t have an opinion,” Jon says from where he’s sitting at the table with his head planted on said table next to the empty bowl that had held his breakfast. “I appreciate you feeding me – I don’t think I can overstate that – but right now, I don’t care to have an opinion.”

“Tim said he gave you a turnover yesterday and you were fine, so I think it’ll be okay,” Martin continues, carefully scooping in what looks like some kind of leftover rice dish, “but I figure you know how to throw up in a toilet. Considering you were trained to use one.”

Jon groans inarticulately. His eyes ache, the pain from yesterday radiating up from the bags under his eyes to now subsume the entire area and the central organs.

“Aww, don’t be like that.” Martin snaps the lids on, and puts the two containers in his bag. “I’m a good cook.”

“I’m not saying you’re not,” Jon says to the tabletop, “but I – well, I’m afraid my feet aren’t what are hurting the most today. As it seems I can’t have a single day without some degree of pain.” Well, Elias _had_ told him to slow down with the statements, but there had to be _something_ that Jon could find. Because when he finds the Leitner, he doesn’t want to fumble around in the dark. Perhaps that would complete an actual transformation. Perhaps it would make the illusion worse somehow.

Jon doesn’t care to find out.

“Alright, mały koteczku,” Martin says, slinging his bag over his shoulder and scooping Jon up, “time to go. Time for work. Don’t suppose you’ll have further research tips for me?”

“After I shower.”

//

Jon’s fingertips ache again, cramps trailing down his palms and wrists and even up his forearms. It’s – unpleasant. Makes washing his hair, brushing his teeth, doing much of anything intensely unpleasant.

So Jon’s hair is down again today, unbraided, not even in a messy bun. He’d wrung out as much water as possible, but Martin’s sweater will unfortunately smell like cinnamon and bergamot for some time, probably. It’s unfortunate. Jon will give Martin money for the laundromat as well. Extra money, considering he’s already calculating in the cost created by the additional laundry Jon creates.

But Jon climbs into Martin’s lap nonetheless, opening the present statement with a pained grimace on his face. One of Martin’s arms automatically wraps around Jon’s middle, pulling him back against Martin’s chest and steadying him. It’s a pleasant, solid weight, a solid warmth, a solid pressure, and Martin’s soft enough that being pulled close isn’t uncomfortable.

“You can’t exactly hear my advice,” Jon begins, “but here is where you need to start.” He taps a paragraph with the back of one knuckle – uncurling his fingers hurts too much, and dragging his knuckle along the line works well enough. “Tim called the hospital, and got an answer though he couldn’t get the file. Now…”

//

“Still no luck on finding that statement?” Sasha asks, raising her eyebrows at Tim.

“No,” Tim admits, “but I haven’t exactly been _looking_ , either.”

“Well, how about you fix that?”

Tim groans. “One condition,” he says. “Doesn’t your grandmother have a VCR?”

“I think so, why?”

“Can Martin and I use it this weekend?”

Sasha stares at Tim. “Why do you want to use a _VCR_? Martin’s a hipster, but not that much of one.”

“No, I know. But I found some tapes in my closet. Want to find out what’s recorded, you know?” He smiles at her.

She narrows his eyes at him.

“Come _on_ ,” he cajoles. “It won’t take long. Maybe an hour.”

“You realize my grandmother won’t let anybody leave without feeding them a full meal?”

“Great! Lunch!”

“She cooks like her grandmother does.”

“…So?”

Sasha shakes her head. “Her grandmother was a farmer’s wife, Tim. She cooks for volume, not taste.”

“Well,” Tim says, rallying after a moment, “we’ll bring spices. Who doesn’t like help in the kitchen from two charming young men?”

“She’s a bitch when it comes to her kitchen,” Sasha says. “Her kitchen. Nobody else’s. I’m lucky if she lets me in to get a glass of _water_.”

“Then we can season the food at the table.”

Sasha stares at Tim a moment longer, and then sighs. “Why not. Should be funny, seeing her put you two in your places.”

“Excuse you! I think she’ll love us!”

“Mhm." Sasha's voice is deeply skeptical. "I'll call her tonight. Now, statement? If I’m going to ruin the rest of my week, I might as well get it over with.”

Tim sighs. “Yes ma’am.”

//

Wandering the Archives when you can’t exactly walk is… awkward. Climbing the shelves to get to high-up statements is worse, and Jon’s arms quickly begin to ache.

It takes him a few hours, but Jon has a few more files to look through. Once his eyes feel better. Once his hands stop aching.

…Once he can properly move his hands again.

“Well now, isn’t this fun,” someone croons behind him, and Jon whirls.

Well, _tries_ to whirl, and ends up putting too much pressure on a particularly sensitive blister. Pain lances up his leg and then there’s an abrupt _give_ , and Jon slips on the suddenly freed pus and/or blood. The files fall from his hands, and he crashes into a shelf.

“Fascinating,” the voice continues, and Jon struggles to right himself, finally managing to look at the person talking.

…Jon wishes he hadn’t. They’re tall, like a person stretched thin and askew by a badly-copied image, like a figure seen through poor-quality window glass, a riotous mane of blond curls coiling down from their head, coiling and coiling and coiling. Sharp hands, palms as big as the person’s torso narrowing into wickedly sharp fingers, are curled into a facsimile of fists and resting beneath their chin, beneath a grin that seems too wide for their face, beneath eyes that swirl and whirl through colors bright enough to make Jon’s eyes ache worse than ever.

He knows them.

“You,” Jon manages.

“Me,” they agree. “How are you liking this, Archivist?”

“I’m _not_ ,” Jon snaps.

“Hmn. Shame. I’m liking it quite a lot,” they say.

“Who –”

Jon’s not sure when they moved, but they’re suddenly directly in front of him, barely an inch away, looming over him and staring down, blond curls falling in a curtain around Jon’s face that makes Jon nauseous from the memory of the last time this happened.

“Not a who, Archivist, but a what,” they croon. “You have very pretty eyes. I’m not surprised.” They grin, mouth practically splitting their face in half. “This is good fun, isn’t it?”

“ _No_ , it’s –”

They’re gone.

Jon collapses back against the shelf, and tries to calm his breathing. When had he started hyperventilating? He’s not sure, but it’s not helping his eyes.

It’s not comfortable, but Jon slowly slides down the bookcase until he’s sitting with his legs sprawled in front of him. He’s surrounded by the statements that he’d picked, statements that are now utterly shuffled because Getrude didn’t see fit to _staple statements together_.

Jon would rather like to bring her back to life and strangle her.

Once his hands feel better.

…He’d popped one of the larger blood blisters. So it’s pus _and_ blood that he’s now sitting next to, that’s now leaking from his foot. So Jon would be wearing neither socks nor shoes for the next few hours.

//

“Okay, who the fuck –”

“Tim!” Sasha snapped.

“Sorry, _whom_ the fuck did this?” Tim gestures to the mess of disorganized statements – five statements, five folders, with pages in a single jumbled pile. “Jon? What did I ever do to you to make you hate me? I bought you a pastry yesterday, is that not enough?”

Jon doesn’t respond from the armchair, where he’s curled up with his tail over his eyes, nearly completely covered by the blanket.

“I don’t think he feels good,” Martin says from his desk, hands clasped tightly around his mug of tea.

“Cats probably get headaches too,” Tim says, a tad dismissively. “Dehydration headaches, yeah? Don’t think he drinks enough.”

That is not the right thing to say. Martin turns worried eyes on Tim, a frown beginning to appear on his face, and Tim’s heart can’t take it.

“Look, I’ll read your email again, try and get fluids in him tonight,” he soothes. “But that doesn’t change the fact that there’s this _mess_ to deal with!”

Sasha pushes off from her desk, and wheels over to look at said mess. “Well, get as far as you can today, and then we’ll work on it on Monday,” she says practically.

“Sasha,” Tim whines.

“Tim,” Sasha mocks. “Get the statement pages in one pile and the follow-up pages in another, if there are any, and we’ll go from there. Come on, get to it.” She gestures with her phone, accidentally whapping herself in the face with her headphone cord in the process. “We’ve got an hour and a half left. And while it’d be nice if you continued after we left, I doubt that will happen.”

Tim winced. “You wound me, Sasha.”

“With the truth.” Sasha wheels back to her own desk. “Get to it, Tim.”

Tim sat down with a small huff. “…Sasha?”

“ _What_?”

“I need a pen for this.”

Sasha threw one at Tim’s head, and Tim laughed, and the tension was broken.

//

Tim stares at Jon, elbow propped on the table, fingers tapping a rough rhythm against his jaw. He’s finished eating, finished eating several minutes ago, but Jon hasn’t touched his food.

“Is it not spicy enough for you?” Tim asks. “Do you only accept food that’s five out of five on the spicy scale?”

Jon meows quietly, and flails slightly with his front paws.

“Huh. Yeah, that means nothing to me, Jonny-boy.”

Jon meows again, distinctly irritated this time.

“Chill, Jon.” Tim shakes his head. “If you lose weight while you’re with me, Martin will skin me alive, and then who’s going to introduce you to podcasts?”

Jon lowers his head until it’s resting on the table.

“At least drink the coconut milk,” Tim bargains, taking the tone he’d used when Danny was being stubborn when they were little, “and I won’t nag you about the rest of it. Okay?”

Jon doesn’t move.

“ _And_ I’ll put Sawbones on instead of MBMBAM,” Tim adds.

Slowly, Jon lifts his head, and moves for the coconut milk.

Tim bites back laughter at the reluctant sight. “You drive a hard bargain,” he says cheerfully, pulling out his phone and scrolling through his podcasts. “Alright. How about… lobotomy? Once for no, twice for yes.”

Jon meows once.

“Phrenology?”

Jon meows twice.

“Phrenology it is,” Tim says cheerfully, and turns his sound up.

//

Changing clothes is just as much of a struggle as it was this morning. Uncurling his fingers still hurts, sets his hands alight with bright pain, but Jon refuses to sleep in that day’s clothes and asking for help is clearly out of the question.

So he struggles through it, unbuttons as few buttons as possible before pulling the shirt off over his head, sliding the trousers off without undoing the button there – the easiest part, considering the trousers had spent the entire day threatening to slide off.

Tim’s clothes are free of fastenings, at least. Leggings and an old shirt, both far too big, both blessedly easy to get on, and just as comfortable as Martin’s cardigans.

“Checking your feet, and then bed,” Tim announces, returning to the bedroom with slightly damp hair and skin.

Jon groans, and flops backwards onto the bed.

“Don’t give me that,” Tim says sternly. “I don’t want to look up some vet emergency room, okay?”

Reluctantly, Jon scoots backwards so Tim has easy access.

“…Still a different color, but splotchier,” Tim reports after a moment.

“That would be the burst blister, I think,” Jon offers.

“And I’m guessing they’re still tender, but I’m not mean enough to poke them and find out.”

“I appreciate that.” Jon doesn’t protest when Tim stands and scoops him up, climbing into bed with Jon in his arms, and makes a coordinated flop down onto the mattress with Jon held close. It’s less comfortable than it’d be had Martin done it, but it’s not the worst thing Jon’s gone through today.

“And goodnight,” Tim says, hurling his stress ball at the lightswitch and turning the lights off.

“Goodnight, Tim.”

Tim rolls over, settling Jon on the mattress next to him, and gently kisses the tip of Jon’s nose.

Jon is glad both for the darkness and for the fact that Tim thinks he’s a cat, as both serve to hide just how deeply he blushes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> watch me yoink a line directly from the source text  
> also fun fact i got confused while writing this and thought this was supposed to be friday, instead of wednesday.


	27. Thursday, Day 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon makes a video.
> 
> Somebody messes up Sasha's foundation.
> 
> Martin refuses to go back to church. 
> 
> Tim is vindicated. 
> 
> Handfeeding occurs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and the plot begins to speed up

“So, have you ever heard _Shmanners_?” Tim says conversationally, and Jon groans.

“Is it another McElroy podcast? Or simply Maximum Fun?” he asks, running the back of his hand down his face. Showering today would be… fun, considering his hands were in the same state as yesterday. His headache was gone, yes, but the pain and cramps that made straightening his fingers nigh unbearable? That continued. His fingertips, though, the physical shape of his hands had not changed. No, that was still normal. And his blisters were healing nicely, in part due to the fact he’d shamelessly raided Tim’s first aid kit. Oddly well stocked, for a man whose hobbies appeared to consist of podcasts and various forms of physical activity.

“It’s completely ridiculous,” Tim continues, opening his computer and tapping impatiently at the keyboard to wake it up. “But pretty funny. You know Travis, middlest brother? It’s him and his wife.”

“Regardless of how intensely interesting that sounds,” Jon says dryly, “Do you realize could just push the power button? It would be faster,” Jon points out.

“I’ll put an episode on after you come back from whatever you roll in to smell nice, okay? So go. Shoo. I want to finish the episode before Martin and Sasha get here.”

Jon sighs and rolls off the armchair, hitting the floor knee-first. “I hope it’s better than MBMBAM,” he mutters, and slowly, painfully, pulls himself to his feet. “ _Riddle me piss_ is hardly a good segment.”

“Oh!”

Jon turns at Tim’s sudden exclamation.

“We need to replace the tape! Come on, co-conspirator. You’ll need to get further into the Archives anyway, you might as well be my backup.”

Jon groans again, but doesn’t complain when Tim scoops him without breaking stride, even though the movement knocks the collar of Tim’s hoodie down further, even though it makes the bell on his collar bounce against his throat and jingle brightly. “Isn’t Martin your backup?” he asks. “Since he’s the one you first roped into this whole scheme.”

“You’re right, even if our serial killing ghost coworker didn’t leave any images, it still could have gotten some good audio,” Tim says as he walks, bouncing Jon slightly to settle him better. “Well, no way to know until we get a VCR. Here’s to hoping Sasha’s grandmother is fine with us using hers.”

Jon’s ears perk up. Audio… perhaps. Should the tape prove promising, that might mean that further analogue recordings would work. But –

“You do realize there’s a VCR in the Archives, don’t you?” Jon asks.

“Let’s go further our morally dubious yet utterly justified surveillance!”

//

Jon sits carefully in front of the camera, perched on his desk in a spot he’d created by shoving papers and books into jumbled piles that he’d certainly regret later.

“Well.” He looks into the camera. “I hope this is not a fool’s errand.” Jon clears his throat. “I suppose I ought to introduce myself. My name is Jonathan Sims, and I am the Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. Three weeks ago, while trying to record a statement taken during Gertrude Robinson’s tenure, I was unfortunate enough to come across a Leitner that appeared to be a cat training manual, and as a result, the three of you – Tim, Martin, and Sasha – now believe that I am a cat. In addition to everybody else.

“There are two people who seem to be immune to the Leitner’s effects. Elias, for reasons that I don’t know. But though he has offered general support, he has not been able to provide any real help. Another… _being_ has visited me twice. The first time, it trapped me in what appeared to be endless corridors, which is where I injured my feet.” He twists his leg, holding his foot up to display the blisters. “The second was yesterday, where it cornered me deeper in the Archives. It did not harm me that time, but nor has it provided any help. Oh, I should say – the day I am making this recording is Thursday, February eighth, roughly the twenty-second day I have been in this situation.

“I have attempted to do research into the Leitner, to see if there are any ways to reverse its effect. One mentions that the effects are reversed upon the victim’s death, and the other mentions ripping a certain page from the Leitner. However, the Leitner was stolen from my office a few days after this whole… thing began.

“I will admit, I did not put effort into researching it for the first few days, as I thought it was merely a prank. I understand that my promotion is not exactly ideal – Sasha would be much better, and I have put in a recommendation to Elias to promote her, should I not be able to reverse these effects.

“Effects which are no longer just a delusion you are all suffering from. As I mentioned, a being trapped me in hallways where I appeared to be turning into something… closer in shape to a cat. During the first week, I believe, I had a nightmare surrounding declawing that left my hands in a great deal of pain and practically impossible for my to touch my fingertips at all without pain. Since yesterday, I’ve not been able to straighten my hands without worse pain –” Jon holds up his half curled hands in demonstration, “—and there is no history of rheumatoid arthritis in my history, so I am doubtful that that is the cause of this.

“I hope that this recording is accurate to my experience, and does not simply show a cat meowing at a camera for several minutes. However, should that be what you see, at least you’ll have a good laugh.” He sighs. “And I suppose I have nothing else to mention. Except that there is a VCR in the Archives, which negates the need to speak to Sasha’s grandmother, and that I have kept track of a rough estimate of how much I’ll owe Martin and Tim when this is all over.” He smiles, a tad sardonically. “Again, to Martin and Tim – I am aware of just how consistently and intensely I have invaded your boundaries over the last three weeks, and for that I can’t apologize enough. My defense is that – well.

“I have none. I apologize. When this ends, I promise you that I will be putting in a request with Elias to be transferred, while I look for different employment.” Jon swallows the lump in his throat. “And that’s all. If you don’t mind, I’m going to go see if I can make tea with my hands like this.” 

//

“So, I talked to my gran,” Sasha says, taking a sip of her coffee, “and she’s fine with you stopping by this weekend. I’m not joking about the food, though.”

Tim shrugs. “It’s a price I’ll have to pay.”

“Mhm. Find that statement yet?”

“Nope.” Tim pops the ‘p’, grinning at Sasha’s unimpressed look.

And then something hits Sasha in the back of the head. She yelps, glaring at Tim.

“Don’t look at me! You were literally staring at me this entire time!” Tim holds his hands up defensively.

Something hits Sasha again, this time bouncing off her cheek and landing in her lap.

“…It’s a cassette tape,” she says, picking the object in question up and slowly turning it in her hand.

“Well, that’s a new form of spookiness,” Tim says. “I think I saw a tape player in the haunted office. Be right back.”

Sasha rolls her eyes, but doesn’t stop Tim.

Jon meows from where he sits in front of a mug of tea, courtesy of Martin, carefully lapping at it from time to time.

“Hush, you,” Sasha says. “It messed up my foundation.”

“Success!” Tim cries from the office, quickly emerging with a tape player that looks to be older than Martin. “Come on, let’s see what curse this’ll bring down on us.”

Sasha sighs, but takes the player from him. “Martin, want to see a prank?” she calls. But Martin must be too far away – there’s no answering shout. So Sasha turns her attention to the player, and presses play.

There’s a burst of static at the beginning, one that makes Sasha wince and almost turn it off. But she doesn’t, and the static clears.

“Statement of Marie D’Savory –”

“ _God_ , he nailed the pretentious French accent on that name.”

“Tim!”

“Sorry.”

“—regarding an encounter with a young man in Brussels. Original statement given March nineth, 1988. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute. Recording begins…”

//

When the recording ends, Sasha and Tim stare blankly at each other. 

“… _Head Archivist_?” Sasha finally demands.

Tim walks over to his chair, and slumps down into it. “Okay, one piece at a time.” He holds up one finger. “First. Statement taken in the 80’s. That’s during Gertrude’s time, when she was the Head Archivist. Second, that was _definitely_ an actual statement. No drugs or whatever behind it. Third, that’s guy’s voice.” He whistles lowly.

“ _Tim._ ”

“Yeah, I know. “And lastly, he went on about follow-up, and _listed our work_. This is the statement we lost a few days ago, Sash.”

Sasha puts the tape player on her desk, and stares blankly at it. Then, “I apologize for making fun of you thinking we have a ghostly coworker.”

Jon yowls from his chair.

“Yeah, it’s creepy,” Tim agrees, heaving himself to his feet. “Alright, I’m looking for Martin. Time to tell him we’re both vindicated.”

“Should we bring this to Elias now? Since we have actual proof.”

Tim’s face turns contemplative. “Well, considering we’re not actually supposed to be recording statements,” he points out, “I don’t think that’d be a good idea yet. We’re just supposed to be putting them in a box for the new and/or ghost Head Archivist to look at.”

Jon yowls again, and stalks off.

“Where’d his tea go?” Sasha asks. Tim just shrugs.

//

“What do you mean, we’re vindicated?” Martin frowns at Tim. He’d taken up shop by one of the deeper shelves, four boxes spread around him as he sorted files by date.

“First, is this what you do when you vanish?” Tim asks, leaning against the shelf. “Taken on a one-man crusade against the organization?”

Martin blushes slightly. “It’s work that needs done,” he mumbles, and Tim laughs.

“Aww, don’t be like that, I’m just teasing. Anyway. Yeah, we’re vindicated. Something chucked a tape at Sasha’s head twice, that was a recording of the statement that we lost a few days ago. Recorded by some guy named Jonathan Sims, who said he was the Head Archivist.”

“Wasn’t the statement from the 90’s?”

“80’s,” Tim corrects. “But yeah. When Gertrude was Head Archivist. Which means that this guy must be the reason why Elias hasn’t promoted Sasha yet, because he gave the job to a _ghost_.”

“I – are you _sure_ he’s a ghost?”

“The tape came out of nowhere, Martin. I was sitting right across from her, and just. Poof. Out of nowhere. Nobody standing behind her.”

Martin’s frown deepens. “Well, I found a VCR back here,” he says. “I suppose we can look at whatever tape we have?”

Tim’s grin is _blinding_. “Great! Let’s wheel it out, see what we get.”

//

Jon’s sitting in his office, painstakingly and painfully sorting the jumbled piles he’d created before talking to the camera, when the door swings open with enough force to slam it against the wall and make Jon flinch violently.

Tim bursts in, heading directly for the shelf and climbing up without a moment’s hesitation as Martin squeaked in distress from the doorway.

“Alright,” Tim declares, descending with tape in hand. “Come on, Jon, let’s go see what we got.”

“You found the VCR?” Jon asks as Tim pulls him out of the chair and drops the tape into Jon’s lap.

“We have a statement recorded by a ghost,” Tim lists, “and hopefully, we have _video_ of a ghost. I swear, we ought to get that YouTuber in here. _My coworker’s a_ _ghost_!”

“Tim,” Martin says reproachfully, pushing the VCR and TV towards the main room.

“Yeah, I know.”

//

The first image is of a man sitting in Jon’s armchair, a man with brightly colored and mismatched eyes, long dishevelled and greying braids, and an oversized sweater waving awkwardly at the camera. But though his mouth clearly moves, though he clearly speaks, there’s no audio.

Nothing.

Silence.

Not even static.

Tim skips, impatient. The camera footage moves to the Archivist’s office, where that same man is clearly working, pouring over multiple files. He also limps heavily whenever he moves, walking on the sides of his feet.

The next day’s footage shows much the same, though the man’s hands are half curled into fists, his hair is in a messy bun held up by a pen and hope, and he seems unable to properly use his hands. The limp continues, and at twice the man resorts to walking on his knees.

The third day’s footage, the footage captured in the hours since Tim got to work and refreshed the tape, show the man shoving his files into a jumbled mess and climbing onto the desk. He stares at the camera, mismatched eyes seeming brighter in the office light, and speaks. He speaks for some time, at one point lifting his leg to show horrible blisters – blood and not – covering the majority of his feet. His hands are still curled, and his hair is damp and loose. He speaks for some time, though the audio again is – wrong.

What comes out of his mouth is static.

Tim stares intently, trying to read his lips, but this man didn’t think of that, doesn’t shape the words carefully.

Tim gets nothing.

“…So we’re being haunted by an attractive ghost,” Sasha surmises, “who injured both his hands and his feet over three days.”

Tim groans, putting his head in his hands. “I guess the ghost evicted Jon from his workplace,” he says, massaging his closed eyes. Had he blinked more than twice during that entire video? “Since I didn’t see him at all. But maybe the speaker’s just dead on this.”

Jon, in his armchair, puts his head down on the armrest and radiates utter _despair_.

“I know, it’s rude of him,” Tim agrees. “But I guess we can’t get an exorcist or something.”

“If you ask me to go back to that church, I might cry,” Martin bursts out, and Tim chuckles.

“Fair. Sasha, is your gran still fine with us coming with the tape to her place?”

“Well, considering I didn’t tell her about the tape, yeah, I think it’ll be fine.” 

//

Martin looks at Jon across the table with an expression of worry. “Tim mentioned you haven’t been eating,” he says, looking at Jon’s untouched food. “Are you not feeling good?”

Jon rocks back onto his haunches and flails his front paws.

Martin sighs. “Your feet hurt too bad to eat normally?” he guesses. “Well, I can feed you, if you’re okay with that? Tim does that often enough with his carryout.”

Jon looks at Martin for a moment, and then does what Martin has decided to view as a shrug.

“Alright, let’s try it.” Martin stands, carrying his chair over to sit by Jon, and picks up the plate. “Say ‘ahh.’”

Jon meows, deadpan, and carefully takes the piece of vegetable from Martin’s fingers in such a way that there was no contact between Jon’s mouth or lips and Martin’s fingers.

“Really, I don’t mind washing my hands after this.” Martin smiles fondly at Jon.

Jon gives Martin an unimpressed look, and Martin sighs again.

“Alright. Here you go.”

//

The upside to being handfed was that Jon didn’t have to struggle through washing his hands.

The downside to being handfed was that he’ll have to look Martin in the eye after this.

But Jon doesn’t bother fighting bedtime, doesn’t bother flailing his way out of Martin’s arms when Martin carries him to bed (he’s injured badly enough, thank you), doesn’t bother complaining when Martin sets him on the bed.

Jon complains a bit, though, mumbling to himself as he struggles out of Tim’s clothes and into Martin’s. A hoodie had not been his brightest idea.

…Taking this _job_ , Jon’s beginning to think, had not been his brightest idea, but that’s irrelevant.

Martin’s a shadow in the doorway when Jon notices him, notices the smell of his soap, which smells roughly like what somebody who had never smelled vanilla thought vanilla would smell like. But though Martin brings with him a returned flush of embarrassment for Jon, he also brings with him warmth and a degree of comfort as he wraps his arms around Jon and pulls the blankets over them both.

“Goodnight,” Martin murmurs, lightly kissing Jon’s forehead.

“Goodnight, Martin.”

Martin’s flat often brought nightmares.

But if the nightmares would fix Jon’s hands, then he’d gladly take them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently it takes me two hours to write 2800 words. fun fact.


	28. Friday, Day 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon finds another book.
> 
> Elias is sadly necessary.
> 
> Martin's Research 101 course continues. 
> 
> Sasha plans.
> 
> Tim is prompt when clocking out.
> 
> There's also singing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GUYS LOOK --> https://solitaaaaaairrrre.tumblr.com/post/616512534520971264/hi-hi-hello-this-is-the-joncat-i-sketched-as   
> fanart!!! i have no words!!! aaaaa!

Jon’s hands are stiff.

Of course they are, he’s clutching a book tight enough for his knuckles to turn white. An old leather-bound book, untitled, that weighs more than he does. He doesn’t know how he’s holding it.

He can’t let go.

He wants to look at it. Wants to flip through the pages, look for an author, a title, perhaps learn when it was written.

He can’t.

Jon’s hands are stiff.

His hands are wet. The ink must not have dried right, because it’s seeping from the pages and spilling over his right hand. The binding must not have been done right, because there’s glue seeping from the leather and spilling over his left hand.

His hands are stiff.

But Jon’s right hand finally relaxes, and he opens the book, lets it fall open to a random page. Reads, reads the words that are flowing from the page to his hand and up his arm and burning permanent marks into his skin.

And it says quite a bit.

//

Jon’s hands are stiff, but he can straighten them, spread them enough to fingercomb his hair.

Crack his knuckles loud enough that Martin spins around in his kitchen, looking for whatever cup or mug or plate fell and shattered.

It’s – well. Jon can’t stop smiling. He’s resting his head in his hand, drumming his fingertips against his jaw, and he can’t stop smiling.

His hands work again.

_He_ can work again today, do more than awkwardly drag his knuckle across a given line of text to show Martin what to read.

And Jon needs to pull files again today, files for them to record and discredit and tuck away into a reasonable, comprehensible filing system.

And Jon can do that.

Because his hands are normal again.

His feet still ache and throb, but his hands are normal again.

//

Elias puts the book away with a sigh. It’s a thick tome, one he’d seen in Albrecht’s collection. From Johann von Württemberg’s collection. And it’s not one he likes to use, but with the Spiral being a bit more vicious than Elias expected, there’s not much else to be done.

Perhaps a bit longer before he truly steps in. He needs the marks to be good and thorough – and providing the cure would create quite a bit of gratitude on Jon’s part, gratitude that would be quite convenient.

But now? Now, Jon is sitting in Martin’s kitchen, grinning like an _idiot_ from one of Gertrude’s awful novels, who is mere pages away from being the victim of a horribly tragic plot twist.

Or a happy ending, but that would be _quite_ inconvenient for Elias’ purposes. And considering what Elias hopes to have in store for him, quite unlikely.

And Jon’s eyes are quite pretty, now.

Well, the green one is.

//

By the time Martin’s finished his tea, Jon has already set a file on his desk and is sitting patiently in his chair.

“Are you going to give me a file that gives me nightmares?” Martin asks, only half joking as he picks Jon up and sits down, settling Jon in his lap.

Jon meows in response, tapping impatiently at the file with his paw.

“Well, you’re certainly feeling better,” Martin says thoughtfully, lightly scratching between Jon’s ears before opening the file. “Statement of… well, they have horrible handwriting.”

Jon taps the page again, and Martin obediently flips to the next page. Then flips back when Jon taps the previous page.

He feels a bit like a malfunctioning e-reader. Or an e-reader trying to load a book that wasn’t formatted correctly for his interface, and as such is a _pain_ to read.

Jon slowly, carefully, puts his paw on one particularly line, one that Martin _thinks_ references a hometown.

“Are you saying I ought to start with census records from wherever it is that that says?” Martin asks, dubious. “Or – look. I’ll just.” He grabs a piece of paper and a pen, settling it next to the file. “A list of things I think would work, and you just. Hit what would be best?”

Jon meows, and Martin takes that as a _yes_.

//

The scheduling laid out in front of Elias is simple enough for him to do while he casts his eyes about – Jon’s official performance review will have to be pushed back, and Elias needs to calculate just how much backpay Jon would need, accounting for how much Elias has deducted to pay Jon’s rent. Among other things. He’d also need a statement from Jon’s landlord confirming that the rent has been paid.

Elias calmly ignores the gaudy book sitting in his desk, a book that Gertrude had gleefully used multiple times during his tenure.

It had never worked against Elias, and now it didn’t work against the Distortion, but most other avatars couldn’t quite see through its illusion. A grey cat with cold eyes is often just a grey cat with cold eyes, nothing else. Gertrude had been careful, though, cautious in a way that Jon obviously hasn’t been. Certain pages and certain passages, nothing else – she’d used it with its… long-term effects in mind, should she fail.

At least, that was the impression she’d given Elias.

Gertrude had been quite fond of those tawdry, cheap books of hers, fond of remembering passages whenever Elias tried to dig further; passages that still haunted Elias and turned his stomach, low quality writing only worsening the trite and torrid content.

But Jon, at least, has better taste. He may devour whatever books he’s given, tear through them with vigor, but at least he doesn’t cling to Harlequin novels and force them on Elias’ consciousness by default.

That was, admittedly, one of the reasons he’d picked Jon over Tim. It’s best to have tools that one can use without visceral disgust, after all.

//

“Okay, so I’ll have Jon this weekend,” Tim says, ignoring Martin’s slightly dejected expression, “and he should do well enough alone while we go visit your gran.”

“Tim, we’re lucky if we get out in under five hours,” Sasha says dryly. “You don’t know my gran.”

“Well, she can’t be worse than mine, who keeps on trying to set me up with her neighbor’s daughter,” Tim says cheerfully.

“What’s the problem there?”

“Her neighbor’s daughter is _completely_ uninterested.”

“Oh.” Sasha makes a face. “Well then. But anyway. You’re going to behave, right?”

Tim puts on a mock-offended look. “Sasha! How little do you think of me?” he asks, putting a hand dramatically over his heart.

“Too much,” Martin mutters into his tea.

“Martin!” Tim turns his offended look on Martin, who’s now halfway through the process of turning very red. “You’re lucky you’re adorable, or I’d be very cross with you.”

Martin says nothing, and Tim turns back to Sasha.

“I will absolutely behave! I’ll even bring _flowers._ Is she allergic to any particular kind?”

“Her cat likes to eat tulips, so don’t bring those,” Sasha says.

“Great! I’ll just leave a podcast on for Jon and some books for him to sleep on,” Tim says cheerfully, “and he’ll be good for days.”

“Mm, might want to leave some spicy food out,” Sasha teases, “maybe something that’ll make Martin cry?”

Privately, Martin decides to try and up his tolerance for spicy food.

“Ah, yes, the perfect scale – the _Does It Make Martin Cry?_ scale of spiciness.” Tim nods sagely. “He’ll be fine if he gets fed late. I’ll just give him a big breakfast. So long as he doesn’t suddenly lose weight due to getting fed at the wrong time, it’ll be fine.”

Martin glances over at the empty armchair. “Have you seen him recently?” he asks, cheeks still slightly flushed. “He wandered off after this morning.”

Tim shrugs. “Nope. Probably off sulking since our ghost Archivist kicks him out of the office.”

“Speaking of, do you still have that camera set up?” Sasha asks, tapping her bottom lip with her pen, apparently not noticing the lipstick that was quickly transferring from her lip to said pen. “You should probably get the tape before you leave tonight. I doubt our ghost boss will do anything fascinating in the middle of the night.”

“Who’s to say, Sash?” Tim grins. “Maybe tonight is the night he finally loses it and murders Elias, takes over the Institute, organizes it in a way that makes _sense_.”

“We’re practically paranormal investigators, Tim,” Sasha points out. “By definition, nothing makes sense.”

“Except the statements that are clearly fake?”

“Except the statements that are clearly fake,” Sasha agrees.

Tim turns his attention back to his phone, Sasha turns her music up, and then –

“Ghostchivist!”

“Tim, if you try and make that a thing, I will actually kill you, and then you can be stuck with him for eternity.”

“Sorry, Sash.”

//

“The thing I don’t get,” Jon says to the tape recorder, “is why you work, and the camera doesn’t.”

The tape recorder whirs along.

“You both use tapes,” Jon continues. “Why is video such an issue?”

The tape recorder whirs, and Jon sighs, flexes his hands. They’re still a bit stiff, but he can move them without difficulty. Without pain.

…His right arm still stings a bit, but he’s decided not to worry about that. Not when his feet still ache, and he’s still making constant use of the antibacterial ointment he took from Tim’s first aid kit. Not when he’s high on the relief of his hands working again.

“Statement of Jonathan Sims,” Jon says after a moment. “Concerning a Leitner that makes people think he’s a cat.”

//

(Tim looks at the tape on his desk before they leave.

“Well,” he says cheerfully, looking down at Jon, “I am officially off-duty, so I’m dealing with that on Monday!”

Jon quickly understands why murders happen on such a regular basis. And then promptly feels rather guilty, and apologizes as Tim carries him up the stairs.)

//

_“Now every piggy had a razor blade and sharpened it with glee,_

_“Oh, far and near, they all learn fear from King Cole and his little pigs three._

_“Factories churn, bodies burn,_

_“Stars are shining bright,_

_“It’s your turn, now you learn,_

_“How King Cole feasts tonight!_ ” Jon looks closely at Tim, but – no response. Tim doesn’t so much as look up from his phone. “So, it seems everything sounds like purring,” Jon surmises, raising an eyebrow at Tim.

“Are you bitching about ghostchivist kicking you out of the office?” Tim asks absently, patting Jon’s head. “I agree, it’s unfair. Clearly, that’s the ar _cat_ vist’s office.”

“I am the Archivist, Tim.”

“Maybe we can get a little cat tower in there,” Tim continues. “Mount it on the walls, so we can keep the floorspace for our spooky boss.”

“Tim, please. I don’t need more shelves or boxes in my office, I need to finish organizing the mess and detritus Gertrude left.”

“Maybe we can hang a ball or something from the ceiling. Then you could have a toy you can’t run off with!”

“Tim, if you do that, I _will_ be cutting the ball down and throwing it at you,” Jon promises.

Tim laughs. “Love you too, Jonny.”

Jon groans, burying his head in his hands, letting his hair fall in a thick curtain between his face and Tim’s verbal torment.

“It’s inevitable,” Tim continues cheerily. “You already have Martin, I’m pretty certain Sasha’s coming around; we just need to recruit Rosie, and then we can overthrow Elias and take control of the Institute!”

“And put who in charge?” Jon asks, voice muffled in his hands. “I am certainly not a good choice, Martin is too… _Martin_ , and I think you would go mad.”

“I agree, we should put our ghostchivist in charge.” Tim nods. “You make a good point. Get him out of the Archives and give the office back to you. Though you’ll have to timeshare with Sasha, I think, since he’ll finally promote her.”

Jon flops over onto his side, pulls his hair over his face, and gives up.

“Aww, you tired enough you’ve turned into a liquid? Little non-Newtonian cat? Feline felon who has no crimes to commit yet?” Tim reaches over and gently scratches the back of Jon’s head. “Bedtime, then.”

“At least you haven’t subjected me to more podcasts,” Jon mumbles as Tim stands, scoops him up, carts him into the bedroom and gently puts him down on the pillows. “Please find a new podcast network to listen to. You need variety in your comedy.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll leave _Sawbones_ on for you tomorrow,” Tim promises. “Now how about you finish your intense, pre-sleep grooming while I get ready for bed?”

Jon sits up, and sweeps his hair out of his eyes.

“There you are!” Tim lightly taps the tip of Jon’s nose. “There are those creepy, bright eyes of yours.”

“Aren’t you going to get ready for bed?” Jon snaps – and then sighs. “I apologize, that was uncalled for.”

“Grouchy because you’re tired, aren’t you?” Tim pets Jon one last time, before stripping off his shirt, grabbing a pair of sweatpants, and ambling off.

Jon sighs again, but strips quickly, shoving Martin’s clothes under the bed and grabbing a pair of Tim’s shorts and Tim’s discarded shirt. He decides not to think of the implications of wearing the shirt Tim just took off – it saves him the effort and pain of walking to Tim’s closet, and is better than sleeping shirtless. That’s Jon’s excuse, and his reasoning not to bear any more mind to it as he quickly braids his hair. The end of this whole thing will be unbearable regardless, should they all remember what occurred while they thought Jon was a cat. What’s one more incredibly awkward moment?

“Intense grooming, really,” Tim says when he comes back in, trousers bundled up in one hand. “You’re not a fluffball, why are you so worried?”

“You’ve never woken up with a mouthful of hair,” Jon says, wrapping the hairtie around the end of his braid. “Georgie tells me it’s awfully unpleasant.”

“I’m turning the light off _before_ I go to bed,” Tim says. “Are you proud of me?”

“It’s your lightswitch, Tim, I don’t think my opinion counts.”

“I agree, it’s a very good step,” Tim says, closing the door and climbing into bed. “Goodnight, Jon.”

Jon closes his eyes on reflex as Tim kisses his forehead. “…Goodnight, Tim.”

There’s a bit of anxiety curling in Jon’s stomach, of course. How could there not be? Martin’s flat brings nightmares, but Tim’s has brought worse.

…Well. One way to see.

Jon curls a bit closer to Tim, and tries not to worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey i realized yesterday that the whistling in the first track on "high noon over camelot" is the same tune as "lost in the cosmos lonely" which isn't surprising, but still took me A While to realize
> 
> and it was surprisingly difficult to find a song where jonny went straight from "pleasant" to "apeshit" without another person's verse in between? so have verse one of old king cole


	29. Saturday, Day 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon cuts his hair.
> 
> Sasha's gran is introduced.
> 
> Sasha is a filthy liar.
> 
> Martin and Tim get new recipes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also fun fact i'm on tumblr at solitaaaaaairrrre because i couldn't think of a good url, and i post about this fic under the "scritches liveblog" tag

“You know, my grandmother was briefly Mormon?” Tim says conversationally, plopping Jon down on the table and walking towards the fridge. “Long before I was born, but she was Mormon for about three years.”

“It’s surprising she left, then,” Jon says, carefully sliding off the table and onto one of the chairs in a way that only jostled his feet a little bit. “If she went to the trouble to convert, it seems that she would have stayed longer.” 

“I know, it’s not what you’d expect from my family. Apparently there was drama with her bishop.” Tim pulls out eggs, bread, tabasco sauce, and coconut milk. “And now you get to see me struggle down meds, because I forgot them last night.”

Jon looks away as Tim grabs a small bottle, stares intently at the floor. It’s – well, he’s invaded on Tim’s privacy enough. There’s a faint gagging noise, the sound of Tim coughing.

“Well,” Tim says, voice cheery, “that was disgusting. Anyway. I’m out of chili peppers, but never fear – I have tabasco sauce. Think it’d be rude to take that to Sasha’s gran’s house?”

“Yes,” Jon says without a shadow of a doubt. “She prefers savory to spicy.”

He blinks in confusion. There’s a – there’s a _certainty_ to that, like Jon’s known Sasha’s gran for years.

…He decides not to think much into that at the moment, as Tim pulls out a skillet and tosses a small knob of butter in. Thinking down that path will make Jon nauseous from anxiety, and there’s breakfast to be had.

A portion of breakfast big enough for a cat, but breakfast nonetheless.

//

Most of Tim’s books are nonfiction. He guesses that people would be surprised by that, considering his general manner, but there’s something quite satisfying about history. Russian history. Carnival history. Lots of history.

So it’s history books that he puts out for Jon, some on the couch, some on the table, some on the floor. Also the one fiction book he has, which is a certain Douglas Adams book that would surprise nobody should they find it on his shelves.

Jon, meanwhile, sits daintily on the sofa, blanket draped around him, bright eyes watching Tim’s every move.

“So, Martin recommended _Lore_ for you,” Tim says as he puts another history book (college-level textbook he’d found in a second-hand shop for eight pounds) on the table. “Which is far too weird for me, but he said you liked it, so.” Tim shrugs, plugging his laptop in. “Also, if you mess with my laptop, I’ll hand you over to Martin for the rest of the weekend, and tell him you don’t like spicy food.”

Jon meows plaintively, and Tim laughs.

“No idea what episode you’re on,” he says, quickly pulling up the podcast in question, “so I’m just going to start you on the first one. The beginning’s always a nice place to start, right?”

Jon meows.

“Alright.” Tim straightens, hits play, and claps his hands together. “Time for me to go.” He pauses by the sofa on his way out, gently scritching between Jon’s ears and then dipping down to press a kiss to the same spot. “See you, baby.”

Jon meows again.

//

The writing in the first few episodes of Lore, as Jon had previously discovered, is… _rough_. There’s potential, he knows, but still. Green, unpolished.

But there are books strewn about the flat, books that Jon has unfettered access to, and there’s one on the Decembrist Revolt that looks particularly interesting.

He stands, stretches, and pulls his hair over one shoulder. It’s getting long, far longer than he’s ever let it get before.

Well. Tim has scissors, doesn’t he? And Jon’s cut his own hair for years, ever since uni when Georgie threatened to take him to a salon. He just needs the cut to be clean and even.

Tim has scissors. Hopefully, they’re sharp enough.

//

“Where’s Martin?” Tim asks, hands deep in his pockets as he ambles up to the table Sasha claimed in the small coffeeshop.

“Running late,” Sasha says, not looking up from her phone. “You should have time to get something, if you want.”

“Ah, the siren call of caffeine.” Tim nods. “I know it well.”

“Don’t you drink herbal tea?”

“Yeah, I just don’t bring any in to save Martin a heart attack.”

Sasha shakes her head at Tim. “Go get your tea, you idiot.”

“Yes, ma’am!” Tim grins when Sasha’s expression turns exasperated, and wanders off in the general direction of the counter.

//

Sasha’s gran’s house is small, built for one, painted pale yellow with a windowbox of hibernating plants and some small bushes next to the path up to the door. It’s charming, in a way; lined up in a row with houses all at least twice its size, tucked into an alcove yet still bright and cheery. And the front porch is covered, which all three assistants make hurried use of to get out of the utter _downpour_.

“It’s barely above freezing,” Sasha complains as she knocks, “and we have to deal with _this_.”

“You’re just mad the puddle you jumped in got your socks dirty,” Tim teases, grinning when Sasha slaps him.

“They’re bright blue, mud shows up!”

“And they really pull the outfit together,” Tim agrees, “but you still should’ve seen that coming.”

Sasha opens her mouth to argue, but the door opens instead. The woman standing there is small and petite, hands gnarled with arthritis, face deeply lined. But she has Sasha’s eyes, and her hair curls the same way, and she when she smiles the resemblance is undeniable.

“Sasha!” the woman cries, opening her arms wide for an admittedly damp hug.

Sasha just laughs, and hugs her gran tight.

“Tim and Martin?” Sasha’s gran asks, looking at Martin first and then Tim.

“Wrong order, ma’am,” Tim says politely. “I’m Tim, this is Martin.”

Sasha’s gran sighs, taking a step to the side and ushering them in. “Well, I had a chance of getting it right,” she says. “Hang up your coats and leave your shoes by the door, please, I just mopped. What type of tea do you like?”

Sasha gives Martin and Tim an _I told you so_ look, and follows her gran further into the house. “Do you still have the apple-cinnamon tea?”

Sasha’s gran hums. “Yes, I believe so.”

The sitting room is cluttered. A bookcase full to bursting stands directly across from the doorway, and the old floral-print couches and the brightly colored rugs and the pale yellow walls covered with framed jigsaw puzzles – well, all together it make for a rather eye-straining experience. A spinning wheel sits by the couch, a large basket of bright green fiber sitting within easy reach, and four large skeins of yarn sit on the coffee table.

“Let me get that tea started,” Sasha’s gran says, “and then we’ll see about your video, hm?” Tim gives her a thumbs up, Sasha sits down in the armchair, and Martin smiles awkwardly.

“Can I help?” Martin asks, looking from Sasha’s gran to the open doorway where he can see a kitchen and back again. But Sasha’s gran just _tsk_ ’s firmly.

“No, you sit down,” she orders firmly. “I’m capable.”

Martin pauses, and she points at the couch.

“Sit.”

Martin sits.

Sasha’s gran turns a sharp eye on Tim, and he quickly sits next to Martin.

“Now, what kind of biscuits do you like?”

Tim gives a vague shrug, and Martin shakes his head in response. Sasha’s _I told you so_ look intensifies, and only gets worse when her gran comes back with three plates stacked with biscuits.

“So,” Tim says, not bothering to fight as Sasha’s gran hands him one of the plates, “I’m Tim, this is Martin, and this woman you clearly don’t know is Sasha –”

Sasha’s gran shakes her head fondly, handing Sasha a plate. “I’m Angela. Pleasure to meet you, Tim.”

Tim grins at Angela, taking a bite of one of the pieces of shortbread. “Great! Second question – can I have the recipe for this?”

Angela hands the last plate to Martin, and pats Tim’s shoulder. “I’ll bring my recipe box out after lunch,” she promises.

//

“…So.” Tim sighs. “Our TV wasn’t broken.”

Sasha buries her face in her hands. “Gran, if we’ve just cursed you by showing you an evil tape, I’m sorry.”

Angela just sips at her tea. “I’m sure I can deal with a curse or two,” she says mildly. “He has quite pretty hair. Why have you never let yours grow out like that, Sasha?”

Sasha groans. “Because I did that when I was in uni and it gave me a headache for two years,” she says, shoving a biscuit whole into her mouth. “Besides –”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Yeah, _Sash_ ,” Tim teases, “don’t talk with your mouth full.”

Sasha glares at Tim, and swallows the biscuit. “Besides, we have a haunted tape, and you’re focusing on his hair?”

“Well, there’s nothing to say that the tape is haunted,” Angela points out. “It could be a prank.”

“There’s nobody who looks like that at our workplace, I promise you,” Tim says.

“Hmn.” Angela looks at the TV for a moment longer, then shrugs. “Well. Feel free to watch it again while I make lunch. Do any of you dislike shepherd’s pie?”

Martin takes the opportunity to slide his untouched plate of biscuits into Tim’s hands, and Tim takes gleeful advantage of it.

//

(Sasha, it turns out, is a filthy liar, with a gran who is an _excellent_ cook. Tim and Martin both spend twenty minutes taking pictures of her recipes, while Sasha sits on the couch with one last cup of tea and an exasperated expression. The food is _well_ worth watching old TV for much of the day, and listening to the quiet sounds of Angela’s spinning wheel.

“You’re lucky I’m here,” Sasha says, once the door is shut behind them and they’ve walked down the path a ways. “She breaks out cheap, instant coffee for unexpected visitors.”

Martin makes a face, and takes another sip of tea from the thermos Angela had shoved into his hands.)

//

“So, I’m not making shepherd’s pie,” Tim says, locking the door behind him, “but I now have a recipe for _amazing_ shepherd’s pie.”

Jon meows from his spot on the couch, and Tim pauses.

“…Are you fluffier than you were this morning?”

Jon turns a withering look on Tim, and rests his head on the open fiction book of Tim’s.

“Whatever.” Tim shakes his head, hanging up his coat and aligning his shoes with the wall. “You need dinner, though. Well, pre-bed snack, considering the time, and I’m tired of making eggs. Any requests?”

Jon is silent.

“Cool. How about a dismembered sandwich?”

_That_ makes Jon raise his head, give Tim a confused look.

“It’s when you make a sandwich but don’t want to use bread,” Tim says, walking over to the kitchen and grabbing a plate, “so you just stick the fillings on a plate.”

Jon meows at him.

“I’m taking that as an expression of interest, cat-of-mine.” Tim pauses, piece of cheese in hand. “Cat-that’s-half-mine. Also, don’t tell Martin I’m giving you cheese.”

Jon meows.

//

“Goodnight, Jon,” Tim says, running a hand from the top of Jon’s head to the base of his tail, gently digging his nails in as he goes. But Jon goes stiff, and Tim removes his hand. “Not your thing? That’s fair.”

Jon meows quietly, and burrows deeper into the blankets.

“Probably ought to tell Martin,” Tim says consideringly, wrapping an arm around Jon and snuggling in close. “You’re fine with being touched, but no pets down your back.”

Jon meows again.

“Yeah, fair. Goodnight, and I mean it this time.” But Tim gently taps the tip of Jon’s nose, and follows it up with a gentle kiss.

Jon promptly buries his face in Tim’s chest, and Tim laughs. “What, you prefer forehead kisses to nose kisses? Or you really like nose kisses and you don’t want to admit it?”

Jon meows pointedly, muffled somewhat by Tim’s shirt.

“Ah, fine. Goodnight for the third and final time, Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tim's book is definitely hitchhiker's guide to the galaxy
> 
> coming up next time: literally just fluff. this was the only plot point i had for the weekend, so next is just irredeemable fluff and probably humor


	30. Sunday, Day 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lazy day is had.
> 
> Tim muses about clowns and circuses.
> 
> Jon provides unwitting comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter short chapter short chapter short chapter  
> i wasn't kidding about this having no point, yall

“I draw the line at having breakfast in bed,” Tim says, opening the fridge, “but lazing about is ­ _definitely_ on the table.”

Jon folds his arms on the table, and rests his head on his arms. “I believe that sounds quite appealing, yesterday notwithstanding,” he replies, briefly lifting his head to readjust his braid.

If he had two hairties, he’d go for two braids. That is the mood he’s in today. But he has one hairtie, so a single braid is what he’ll maintain. A shorter braid than this time yesterday, thank god, but a braid nonetheless.

“So, I don’t actually _like_ comedy shows,” Tim continues, “despite the podcasts. So many of them just have bad humor, you know? Secondhand embarrassment. Not my thing. _But_ , Netflix specials? Some of them are good.”

“I wouldn’t know, as I haven’t seen any.”

“Now, going off how you function, I’m guessing you’ve never had the treat of watching those,” Tim says, pulling out the ingredients necessary for… what looks like smoothies. Jon’s not sure. “So I’m showing you John Mulaney.”

“I have no idea who that is.”

“Be quiet, I’m using a blender for a minute.”

Jon silences obediently, staring straight ahead and blinking blearily. He’s admittedly gotten quite a bit more sleep than he’s used to, and now on weekends… well, Jon’s reasonably certain he could sleep twelve hours a day. Which, considering both Tim’s mattress and the fact that he can’t bring work back from the Archives, would perhaps not be a _bad_ thing.

Again, provided that last night is not repeated. That is something that Jon would like to precede with communication that both parties can understand, thank you.

“And done,” Tim announces, taking down a cup for himself and a bowl for Jon. “No dairy, but I have no idea what fruits you can eat, and I refuse to put non-leafy green vegetables in smoothies.”

“Did you put spinach in it?” Jon asks, reluctantly sitting up and accepting the bowl Tim puts in front of him.

“Spinach, whatever frozen fruit ended up in that bag, and milk. Don’t tell Martin.”

“I promise, I’ll keep the contraband dairy usage from him.” Jon lifts the bowl to his lips, feeling more than a bit like a child as he does his best to keep the smoothie from going _everywhere_.

“So. John Mulaney – I don’t think he’s named after you, unfortunately – and then _Phineas and Ferb_. Sound good?”

“I have never heard of either of those people.”

“I’m taking that as a yes,” Tim says cheerfully, tossing the rest of his smoothie back with reckless abandon that Jon finds a bit impression. “Finish your smoothie, and then I’m carting you back to bed and forcing more comedy on you.”

“I don’t care, so long as it isn’t MBMBAM.”

//

Jon curls up against Tim’s side quickly, once the blankets are situated, lights are off, and Netflix is playing from Tim’s computer. He also falls asleep quickly, eyes flicking back and forth and paws twitching occasionally. Even by Jon’s standards, it makes Tim’s heart melt just a bit; Jon’s head resting on his shoulder, limbs curled in close and entire frame sandwiched between Tim and the wall and pressed in close to Tim.

Tim smiles, twisting awkwardly to lightly stroke Jon’s ears, dragging his fingertips over the ragged, tattered edges. “Got your ears messed up, missing the first joints of your toes, got a scar on your foot,” Tim says quietly. “Guess you got up to some shit, huh?”

Jon doesn’t reply, beyond snuffling quietly into Tim’s shoulder.

“Beyond your random injuries and brief coma, of course.” Tim sighs. “Don’t suppose you have any information on weird circuses?”

Jon doesn’t reply. Because he is a cat, and also asleep.

“Of course not,” Tim sighs, scratching between Jon’s shoulderblades. “Good for you, of course. Don’t want to know what they’d do to a cat. _Ooo, spooky, I’m a little cat doll with scruffy fur_.” He lets out a harsh laugh. “Good for you. Keep away from that bullshit. I don’t think it’d be nice to animals.”

Slowly, Jon opens his green eye. Blinks sleepily at Tim, and yawns widely. And then his eye closes again, and Jon snuggles in closer to Tim’s shoulder.

Tim huffs a quiet laugh, and gently strokes Jon’s bony shoulders. “Okay, point taken,” he says, and turns the subtitles on, muting Netflix so Jon can sleep in peace.

//

Jon wakes up on the couch, sprawled under a red microfibre blanket, throw pillow tucked under his head. If he had to guess by the state of his mouth and breath, he’d call the time as noon. Why he’s on the couch, of course, is beyond him.

He doesn’t hear anything in the kitchen. He doesn’t hear any noise from the bathroom, or from Tim’s bedroom.

If Jon had to guess, he’d say he’s alone in the flat.

There’s no note that he can see, of course. Why would Tim leave a note for a cat, saying where he’s gone?

Slowly, carefully, Jon rolls off the couch, hitting the ground knee-first. His feet – well, they don’t throb with consistent, never-ending pain, but he doesn’t want to risk it. Not when the burst blister is healing well, not when it seems like the others are slowly beginning to shrink. Besides, hobbling around on his knees works well enough, so long as he’s near furniture to help pull himself along. Like a toddler.

There’s no note on the table (of course) or in the kitchen (of course, they think he’s a cat, why would Tim leave a note for a cat?), but there’s a small dish of sliced fruit and some meat laid out on the table. And going from the proportion size, Jon’s relatively certain that it was meant for him.

Jon’s not sure how long Tim will be gone. But Tim’s shower is big enough for Jon to maneuver, and Jon would very much like to get his hair properly clean after yesterday’s haircut.

He’s pretty certain he saw an old bottle of shampoo that Tim won’t mind him using. It’ll be murder on his hair, of course, but it’s better than bar soap.

And Jon needs to clean his feet again and reapply the antibacterial ointment. He’s already limping, he’d like to not have to have that become permanent after losing a foot to gangrene from an infected blister.

//

Tim’s sweaty and flushed when he returns, hair a mess and shirt sticking uncomfortably to his chest. But he grins at Jon, pausing to ruffle Jon’s fur. “Didn’t want to wake you up,” he says cheerfully, flicking the tip of Jon’s nose, “when I was just going to the gym.”

Jon meows at him.

“Yeah, I hear you, I’m going to the shower. You really think I’m going to wander around for the rest of the day like this?”

Jon doesn’t dignify that with a response, merely laying his head back down on top of the hardback book on the rise of the Romanov dynasty.

“Weirdo,” Tim says fondly, and wanders towards his bedroom for a change of clothes. Jon meows disgruntledly at him, and Tim just laughs.

//

The book has multiple glaring inaccuracies. First, half a dozen words are transliterated improperly. Second, there were three False Dmitris, not four. Third, _grozny_ would properly be translated as formidable, or fearsome.

All things considered, Jon’s impressed he managed to struggle through three chapters before putting the book away in disgust.

(How he knows the translations, the transliterations – those are questions he decides not to answer. For the sake of his own sanity.)

But Jon’s lucky in that he doesn’t have to wait long for Tim to emerge, damp and dressed in sweatpants and a jumper that Jon thinks Tim could have stolen from Martin.

And if that were the case, Jon knows for a fact that it’s not his fault, since he hasn’t borrowed that sweater since last week. It’s a bit big, even by the standards that Jon’s had to accept.

“Alright, you slept through John Mulaney,” Tim says, picking Jon up and flopping onto the couch, settling Jon in his lap.

Jon honestly can’t even be disgruntled. At least Tim didn’t drop him in the process.

“But I still promised to show you _Phineas and Ferb_. Okay?”

Jon sighs, and drops his face to Tim’s chest. “Please keep your hand above my waist.”

“I’ll take that as a yes!”

Within minutes, they’ve transferred to the bed and there’s a themesong blaring from Tim’s computer.

“…Are you really showing me a cartoon?”

Tim absently shushes Jon, and turns subtitles on.

//

Jon feels stiff and sore from the day largely spent in bed, but come nighttime, he can’t exactly complain about the… _convenience_ of it all.

He can complain about the odd way part of his hair has dried, of course, but that’s irrelevant.

“See? Nice to waste a day sometimes,” Tim says, tweaking one of Jon’s ears before putting his laptop away. “Can’t always be pouring over spooky statements that you carry around in your mouth.”

Jon sighs.

“Ah, don’t give me that. Look, I’ll even turn the light off like a proper person, okay?”

Jon gives the ceiling a long-suffering look as Tim stands, flicking the lights off on his way out of the bedroom. What he wouldn’t give for a toothbrush.

…What he wouldn’t give for all this to be a dream, but that’s something Jon’s thought of many times before, and it’s really not worth rehashing that whole debate.

//

(Jon’s half-asleep already when the mattress next to him sinks under Tim’s weight, and a gentle kiss is pressed against Jon’s forehead.

“Goodnight,” Tim whispers, and pulls the blankets up over them both.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah there's actually a bit of a debate among historians as to whether three or four people pretended to be ivan the terrible's dead son in order to take the throne after ivan died, because record keeping in the 1600's wasn't always the best  
> and also, grozny's translation as "terrible" is kinda Eh. source: my russian teacher


	31. monday, Day 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon begins to understand Sisyphus. 
> 
> Tim plans revolt. 
> 
> Martin's hobby is revealed.
> 
> Collectively speaking, the Assistants are dumber than a sack of bricks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY LOOK https://laughingherring.tumblr.com/post/616769512824602624/one-scruffy-arcatvist-boi-from-the-wonderful-fic
> 
> also i meant to post this on time, but slept through my alarms.  
> bit of a sad jon at the end, fyi

There are far too many doors around him.

Far too many colors swirling in front of his eyes, colors that don’t go away when he screws his eyes shut.

And the pain in his stomach, in his throat, in his mouth and teeth and jaw – he feels like something is about to burst from his flesh and bones, unspooling and pouring out in a wave of black sheen.

But he’s talking. He’s not sure what sees saying, not sure of anything at this point beyond the colors and the pain.

It doesn’t matter.

Not when the doors are opening.

//

“Okay, I just have a _feeling_.”

Jon raises an eyebrow at Tim.

“No, no, don’t give me that,” Tim says, pointing sternly at Jon with his fork and nearly losing the bite of breakfast skewered on said fork. “No. Look, I have a feeling that Elias is going to get up to some shit today.”

Jon sighs, running the back of his hand down his face. His hands aren’t injured, thankfully – that pain had yet to return – but his fingers are presently covered in whatever cooking oil Tim had used while making eggs. “I hope that anything he gets up to will be helpful,” Jon says tiredly. His hands are fine, but his head and eyes still ache. Also his feet, because being a cat and being carried around does not miraculously make blisters fade in a few days.

“I’m definitely going to keep my phone’s recorder going until it happens,” Tim says. “I want proof to take to HR.”

“I really don’t think that’s going to do much, Tim.”

//

The tape is missing.

Jon’s not exactly sure why he’s _surprised_ , considering how everything else has been going.

Well.

Unfortunately for whoever stole the tape, Jon has a tape recorder and more tapes.

//

“Statement of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute…”

//

“Well, on the bright side,” Tim says, slowly spinning in his chair and not looking away from his Twitter feed, “I have proof this time.” 

“Tim, just wear plain socks!”

“Sasha. No.” Tim glowers at her. “It’s a moral issue now. He tries to tear us down, but I refuse!”

Martin does his best to hide behind his computer. He himself is wearing socks that are nice and plain. Black. With a small cable running up the side. He’d learned to knit when he was younger, and socks are nice projects. Quick. Finished in a month. And sock yarn can be cheap. He tended to keep his bright, crazy colored socks for weekends, or days when he knew he’d be wearing boots.

He’s still hoping he’ll find some yarn that will hold up to his mother’s standards, saving up for some nice silk blend or another.

…It’s taking a while.

“Now, what I’m thinking.” Tim leans sideways in his chair, feet pressed against the edge of his desk for stability. “One day, we all show up in neon socks.”

“No.”

“Sasha, come on!” Tim tosses his head dramatically. “He can’t take us all down! Not if we arrive in a pack!”

“He can call us up to his office, one at a time,” Sasha points out.

“But what if we _show up_ in a pack?”

“I don’t even _have_ crazy socks,” Sasha says.

“What about your bright blue ones from Saturday?”

“Tim, I’m not wearing _knee-high_ socks to work!” Sasha huffs. “Those go with short skirts.”

“Well, Martin’s getting Jon tonight! I can absolutely go shopping with you, get a nice, work appropriate skirt short enough to be appropriately work appropriate!”

“I don’t think appropriate sounds like a real word now,” Sasha says dryly.

“That’s very appropriate for the situation,” Tim says wisely. “Martin! What about you? Do you need me to buy you some brightly colored socks?”

Martin flushes. “I, ah. I’d rather you not?”

“Early birthday present!” Tim says brightly.

“I don’t really wear cotton socks,” Martin tries. (He prefers 80-20, wool-nylon. 75-25 doesn’t hold up as well as he’d like.)

“Well, it can be an early birthday present! Just tell me where you buy your tastefully hipster creative socks, and I can go there, and we’ll have our strike Wednesday.”

Sasha, for some reason, grimaces slightly.

Martin flounders. “It’s an online company.”

“You get fancy socks.” Tim raises his eyebrows. “But. I’m going through with it. Here, give me the website and we can look it over during lunch.”

“It’s in Ukrainian.”

Tim narrows his eyes. “You’re Polish.”

“I – my aunt buys them for me. She’s Ukrainian.”

“You just don’t want to wear fun socks,” Tim accuses, pointing a pen squarely at Martin.

“Well, I don’t think there’s any point,” Martin says. “It’s – they’re just socks, Tim. I can measure your feet and get my babcia to make you some nice socks.”

“Martin.” Tim sighs. “…That actually sounds really fun, but. Colorful socks are now a moral crusade. We cannot give in. Just wear cotton socks for one day, okay?”

“…Okay.” So long as it will get Tim off his back.

Tim grins, and turns back to his computer.

Then, “You don’t actually buy your socks from a Ukrainian website via your aunt, do you?” Sasha asks.

“…No, I don’t.”

Tim just laughs, and Martin’s ears pick up the quiet sound of a bell underlying the sound.

//

Jon scowls at Sasha’s desk.

The second tape is gone again.

Well, thanks to Elias’ idea of using a tape recorder to record difficult statements, Jon has a steady supply.

He sits down at his desk with a huff, glowering at nothing in particular.

“Statement of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute…”

//

“Should we all have socks of the same _color_ , though?” Tim asks thoughtfully. “Try to match Sasha’s bright blue socks?”

“Good luck with that,” Sasha says dryly. “My grandmother made those.”

“Angela?”

“No, the former farm wife. And that one lives in _Wales_.”

Tim sighs. “It’s far away, but it’s a burden I’m willing to take. This weekend.”

“She can’t make a pair of socks in a _week_ , Tim!”

Martin stares down at his food. He could, probably. He’d not pulled his knitting out in – almost a month, probably? The urge to do something with his hands had been quite thoroughly filled by petting Jon, and there’s always the threat that Jon would look at the yarn like it’s a wonderful toy, and there would go any of Martin’s projects. So, if Tim took Jon for a week, then it would be simple enough.

Martin doesn’t bring this up, though. Not a lot of people actually _wanted_ hand-knit socks. They liked the idea of them, of course, but the labor put in was rarely appreciated.

He might make a jumper for Jon, though, considering how Jon remains stubbornly bony. Long hair or not, he must be cold. Especially in the Archives, in the evenings.

…Martin could swear he hears faint jingling, and the sound of a door creaking open, but when he glances around the room, there’s neither an Archival Cat or somebody at the door to the Archives.

//

Jon is beginning to consider arson, since Sasha’s tape is distinctly bereft of cassette and he knows that the tape player is still sitting firmly on his desk.

Time for drastic action, he supposes, returning to his office and putting in yet another tape.

“Statement of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute…”

//

“I still say we need multiple colors –” Tim says, gesturing emphatically with his pen, when –

Sasha yelps, a hand flying to her cheek where a sudden scratch in her foundation is showing the beginnings of a red mark.

All thoughts of colorful sock-induced rebellion flees Tim’s mind. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine – I –” Sasha looks down at her lap. “Oh. Our dead superior has more work for us, apparently.”

Tim sighs. Stands. “Well, I’ll go get the player. Should I bring – oh, there’s Jon.” Tim pauses by Sasha’s desk, leaning down to gently stroke Jon’s ears.

“Bring me a piece of chocolate from the bar you have stashed in your desk? Absolutely,” Sasha deadpans.

“Nope!” Tim says over his shoulder. “I’ll get Martin.”

//

“Martin!”

Martin squeaks, drops his teabag unceremoniously back into his brewed tea and splashing some over his fingers.

“Oh, sorry.” Tim shrugs, and waves the tape player at Martin. “We got another missive from our Ghostcavist.”

“Oh.” Martin sucks the spilled tea from his fingers. “I’ll – I’ll go with you, then.”

“Great! Come on. I’m sure it’s important.”

//

Tim shamelessly leans against Sasha’s desk, staring directly down at the tape recorder as Sasha presses play. There’s a high chance that he’ll end up retreated to his desk, but…

There’s no painful burst of static this time. Just a click, and speaking.

“Statement of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, regarding a Leitner discovered roughly twenty-six days ago. Statement taken directly from subject, recorded for the _fifth time_.” The recording echoes with the sound of a deep, calming breath. “Recording begins…”

//

Tim slowly looks up from the tape, over to the armchair where Jon sits. And Tim swears that there’s a bit of anxiety in Jon’s posture.

“So,” Tim says after a moment. “Uh. That’s a hell of a prank.”

Jon screeches from his armchair, only briefly, before leaping down and walking dejectedly towards the Head Archivist’s office, tail and ears drooping.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Sasha sighs, and on habit Tim reaches out and lightly hits her upside the head.

“Hey, I’m the only one allowed to swear!”

Sasha gives Tim an unimpressed look.

“I’ll just – I’ll go make some tea, shall I?” Martin stands, and scurries after Jon.

//

“Considering what you now know, regardless of whether you can accept it,” Jon says to Martin, leaning against the counter as Martin bustles around the kitchen, “I – well, I insist on sleeping on the couch tonight.”

Martin’s rattled, Jon thinks. There’s something in his posture – and in the fact that Martin’s gone back to a ready-made tikka masala that makes Jon cringe internally.

“Yeah, I don’t get it either,” Martin says, picking up his tea.

It’s the fourth cup he’s had in the hour that they’ve been back in Martin’s flat.

“It’s just a weirdly specific joke, you know?”

“Well, I – I’m sorry, but it’s really not a joke.” Jon gestures down at himself. “I guess I’ll be going down to Artefact Storage again tomorrow.”

“‘Hey, your office cat that you got a month ago is actually a cursed person, which I need you to trust me on because of reasons that don’t make sense.’” Martin huffs. “It’s – it sounds like a joke you’d pull in uni. Or a cheap TV horror film.”

“I believe my life has turned into a cheap TV horror film, moments of affection aside.” Jon sighs. “Moments that I greatly appreciate, no matter how much I deeply regret impinging on yours and Tim’s privacy.”

Martin pulls his food from the microwave (Jon cringes externally this time at the smell and appearance. Martin can cook, and cook well – perhaps Jon will get him a proper spice blend after this. Supposing Martin speaks to him, in the brief interactions that will be necessary), and pulls Jon’s food from the stove.

“Bon appetite,” Martin says, sliding Jon’s food onto a plate and wandering towards the couch. “Ah. Oops.” He returns to the kitchen and grabs a fork for himself before returning to his set path. “I’m going to be knitting tonight, so if you take my yarn, I’ll be – well, I’ll be quite cross with you.”

Jon trails after Martin, sitting down in front of the coffee table, in front of where Martin’s put Jon’s food.

“It’s – look, I know you haven’t seen me knit before, but it’s _soothing_ , alright? It’s fun, and I want another pair of socks. I had to throw a pair out, you know? They were too damaged to mend.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon offers. “I don’t know – that’s – well, getting rid of something you made must have been hard.”

Martin sighs, stabbing at his bastardized chicken dish. “I wish I could buy some of Angela’s handspun,” he says, a bit wistfully. “But that usually goes for its weight in gold, if they’re even willing to sell. Labor, you know?”

“I don’t, but I can understand the concept.”

//

Martin frowns down at the empty spot where he’d put Jon, not even twenty minutes ago. Usually, Jon would stay put, maybe wriggle under the blankets.

Maybe he’s thirsty?

Martin wanders out into the apartment, flicking on the lights as he goes.

Jon is… Jon is curled up on the couch under a throw, looking frankly pathetic. And Martin could have sworn he’d folded the blanket up.

“Jon, you’re being ridiculous,” Martin sighs, scooping Jon up and leaving the blanket pooled on the floor. He’ll deal with that tomorrow.

Jon meows at him, and when Martin deposits him on the bed, darts right back towards the door that Martin had left ajar due to having his hands full of cat.

“Jon!”

Martin gives chase, and sees Jon leap onto the couch with an edge of the blanket gripped between his teeth.

“Jon, come on, I don’t want to fight with a cat.” Martin picks Jon up again, and grabs a chair from his table on his way back to the bedroom. “It is _bedtime_.” He puts Jon down – admittedly, less than gently – and spins, shutting the door and propping the chair up under the door handle.

Jon meows again.

“Jon, it’s bedtime, I’m not fighting with you.” Martin scowls. “And if I find any presents, I’m going to be quite cross with you!”

Jon meows again, and shifts back towards the wall. There’s – there’s an odd mix of stubbornness and dejection in Jon’s posture, one that makes Martin’s heart ache in sympathy.

“And don’t you go after my books, okay?”

Jon meows, and Martin climbs into bed after him, pulling the blankets up.

“Can I kiss you goodnight, or will you bite me?”

Jon closes his eyes, and Martin takes that as consent. And Martin isn’t bitten for his efforts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jon: well i've literally told you everything you need to know, so now i'm going to try and respect your boundaries, like a normal person  
> martin: >:(  
> not only that but hey, jon has Emotions that he Acknowleges


	32. Tuesday, Day 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> somebody put me in contact with the whateverthefuck from episode five because this chapter was like pulling teeth

Artefact Storage is rather cold. Climate-controlled.

Altogether incredibly unpleasant to walk through with bare feet, but putting on shoes still feels like Jon’s set his feet on fire, so. Better to hobble along, using the shelves for stability when need be.

Martin is in the breakroom, making tea. And he’d seen Jon head deeper into the Archives, had _followed_ Jon deeper into the Archives, since one had to pass the breakroom in order to find the showers.

But apparently the illusion is helpful in some ways, as it made Jon’s heavy, uneven footsteps quiet enough that Martin couldn’t hear them.

Or Martin is in severe need of a hearing test, but that’s trouble that Jon doesn’t want to deal with just yet.

It’s early still, long before Vivian and Fifi take up their work doing – whatever people do in Artefact Storage besides attempting to not be violently and horribly destroyed by whatever lurks here. Jon’s never been exactly sure, and nor has he asked Sasha about the details of her job description.

It’s early, and it’s cold, and Martin is in the breakroom making tea. Or sitting at his desk, looking mournfully at his poetry notebook as he starts up his computer, despite not being on the clock and not being paid overtime.

That’s the unfortunate thing about Martin, Jon supposes as he rounds another corner, sets off down another row. Before all this, when he assumed Martin was just incompetent? It was annoying and irksome, but Jon didn’t have to care. But apparently Martin hadn’t gotten the right _training_. Which is a failing that reflects on Jon – he’s not exactly been Martin’s boss for a long time, but if his employee is struggling, then it’s on him to help them improve. And a failing on the part of wherever Martin went to school, probably, but Jon hasn’t exactly looked at Martin’s CV.

But Sasha’s fond enough of Martin, patient enough, and Tim could easily take up where Jon’s left off – and probably do a much better job, considering that Tim and Martin literally understand each other, and also Tim wouldn’t need to be sitting in Martin’s lap.

Jon isn’t paying attention.

Not to his surroundings, at least.

And the elbow of Martin’s jumper – soft, green, with cables that look like trees – gets caught on a jagged nail, because nothing in Artefact Storage is safe. Not even jumpers. Jumpers that, should the loose thread be pulled any further, may need patching, which would be a bad situation for all involved.

Jon sighs, carefully extracts the jumper from the nail, and lightly tugs at the surrounding material until the loose thread slides (mostly) back into place.

It’s a nice jumper, Jon can admit. The collar is fond of slipping down to reveal clavicle and collarbones and sternum should Jon leave it alone, but it’s a nice jumper. Warm. Probably clashes horribly with the obnoxiously bizarre colors his eyes have turned, but it’s a nice jumper.

Handknit.

Probably quite labor-intensive.

And very warm.

It smells like Martin’s shampoo, like the bastardized scent of what someone thought something like woodsmoke smelt like, after having the smell described to them by a person who hadn’t come into contact with said scent for multiple decades – but it was a warm scent, and brought to mind soft blankets and a hard mattress.

So really, it could be worse.

//

“What, no work for us today?” Tim jokes, plugging his phone in and carefully snaking the charger cord to his desk.

“Tim, we still have work from yesterday,” Sasha points out dryly.

“Yeah, planning our sock revolution.” Tim nods solemnly, grabbing a pen and piece of spare paper. “You need a short yet appropriate skirt, and Martin needs fun socks. Completely doable.”

“Maybe we should get Jon a neon collar.”

Tim, unfortunately, takes Sasha quite seriously, and adds that to the list. “Maybe we can get Artefact Storage on board,” he says, tapping the end of his pen against his desk. “And Rosie.”

“Rosie, no.” Sasha shakes her head. “I don’t think she owns anything besides frumpy jumpers, like Martin.”

Martin, unsurprisingly, flushes.

“Not that those jumpers don’t look good on you,” Tim says quickly. “You pull them off. She just looks like a tired librarian.”

“The glasses don’t help,” Sasha agrees. “Or the hair.”

“We could dye our hair!”

“No.” Sasha throws a pen at Tim. “No. I’m not doing that.”

Tim sighs, and bends to retrieve said pen. “One of my erstwhile soldiers has returned,” he says, returning it to his desk. “There’s dissent in the ranks, Sash. But, Martin, if we find brightly colored wool socks, will you wear them?”

Martin stares at his computer, and doesn’t reply.

“Mar-tin,” Tim says, singsong. “Come on, don’t be a spoilsport. We’re even dragging _Jon_ into this, and he’s staying with me tonight, so you know it’s happening.”

“…I already have some.”

Tim drops his pen in surprise. “You _what_?”

“I already have bright socks, okay?” Martin somehow manages to shrink into his jumper, eyes still glued to the screen. “I – they’re bright.”

“Text us a picture tonight,” Tim says. “I want proof, or I’m bringing you some tomorrow.”

Martin doesn’t reply, though his ears have started to flush red.

//

There is a book on the shelf.

Which is where books oft sit, and usually would be worth no further notice, but it’s a rather familiar, rather _gaudy_ book with a cheerful title.

Jon shucks Martin’s jumper immediately, wrapping it around his hand as he grabs the Leitner from the shelf. How it ended up in Artefact Storage, how somebody went through his office without him noticing the difference –

Alright, neither is particularly surprising, nor are they particularly disturbing, considering what has happened in the past month. But the fact remains that the Leitner is _here_.

Jon sits, dropping the book on the ground in front of him, and takes a moment to just _stare_.

The picture of a happy-looking cat and beaming owners stares back at him. The title and its utterly unnecessary exclamation mark stares back at him.

It’s barely even the length of a full book, all things considered, barely long enough to surpass a pamphlet, but it’s _there_.

…Jon’s slightly afraid to touch it. He’s right to be wary, considering what happened last time, considering he has no idea of what kind of effects it could have should it further affect him, but. Well.

Jon’s rather tired of being lonely. Of being forced to be lonely, he should say; it’s one thing to isolate oneself, to devote all your attention to work, to decline offers of drink and companionship. It’s another to have that forced upon you, to be put in a situation where you’re never understood, where people have conversations _at_ you instead of _with_ you.

Even if the conversations you had often amounted to “why are you bringing me tea instead of working” instead of anything meaningful, they were still conversations.

Jon sighs heavily, and gingerly reaches out. What he’s planning to do, he has no idea – he tried to burn it early on, before it had vanished, and it hadn’t even smoldered at him.

His fingers brush the cover, and he flinches away, staring with baited breath to see what would happen to him.

…Nothing does. Jon’s hands don’t shift, bones grinding and dragging themselves into a different form, nails hardening and thickening and sharpening. No, they remain his hands. Human. Rather jagged nails, considering the last time he’d cut them had been with his teeth in a moment of anxiety induced nail biting, but still. Human nails, human hands.

Slowly, Jon reaches out again, and opens the book.

Nothing happens besides the spine creaking gently.

And as Jon flicks through the pages, nothing happens to him. His teeth don’t change, he doesn’t grow grey-streaked fur; there’s nothing. Just the sound of turning pages. There are a lot of pages, pages that he doesn’t read particularly quickly – he doubts that the book would force him to visit a house controlled by a horrific cat-like creature, but the fear remains. And he feels rather justified in that.

But Jon comes to the end of the book, to the last few pages. And those pages are lined, the first titled _Write down your progress! Experience is the best encouragement!_ in a stubbornly cheerful yellow.

And his name is listed. The date this whole thing began is listed. The saga of bedsharing and dual custody is listed. His injuries are listed.

It’s all listed. All described in succinct bullet points.

It’s all there. Every last bit of it. And that, he knows suddenly, is what has to change for this to be reversed. He has to get rid of that text.

The page won’t tear out. It also won’t burn, so removing it is a bit redundant. So – marking it out, Jon guesses? Perhaps scribbling over it, blacking out the words. Perhaps that would work.

He has a permanent marker in his office, one that hasn’t seen any use.

Well, that will apparently change today.

//

“Where did you even learn this?” Tim marvels, staring at the picture on Martin’s Instagram. It’s – well, it completely reveals Martin’s knitting, finished projects draped artfully over the back of his sofa or neatly laid out on his floor, shawls and socks and jumpers and lace and one cabled blanket that must have taken _years_. And a huge lace shawl, easily a meter and a half across – two pictures of that shawl, actually, one of it spread across Martin’s bed and another of it threaded through a ring.

“Well, I needed a quiet hobby, so. One of my neighbors taught me when I was young, and I’ve just. Kept it up.” Martin shrugs awkwardly, taking his phone back from Tim and pocketing it. The socks, which had been Martin’s initial reason for showing Tim his Instagram, were bright pink and a light, neon green.

Tim grins. “They’re perfect,” he declares. “You wear those, we’ll get Sasha a skirt and Jon a neon collar, and we’ll stage our revolt.”

//

Jon’s hands do not shake as he puts marker to paper.

Anybody who claims so would clearly be a liar.

He is dead-set on changing this situation _somehow_ , and that certainty clearly translates through his resolute expression and steady hands.

(That’s a lie, of course. He’s sitting at his desk shaking like a leaf, barely able to take the cap off his marker, shivering despite the thick wool of Martin’s sweater. He’s scared. Of course he is. What else could he be?)

But there’s a viciousness in the way he scribbles over the text describing his “training.” A viciousness as he drags the marker over those lines again and again and again, until the page is saturated with ink and threatening to tear under the force of his scribbling.

Jon forces himself to put the marker down. Close the book. Stand.

It’s time to find out of this worked. And he can’t stop shaking.

Any drastic change causes anxiety, Jon tells himself as he limps out of his office, leaning against the wall as he goes.

It’s not until he’s almost to the breakroom that Jon realizes that he’s still wearing the collar.

His hands are almost shaking too badly for him to take it off, but he manages, and drops it to the ground without a care.

Cats are stubborn bastards, after all. And if this doesn’t work, he’s sure the illusion will make some explanation or another as to how he managed to get the collar off.

//

“No, really. You taught yourself that?”

Martin shrugs awkwardly. “I mean, once you get the basic stitches down, it’s pretty simple,” he says. “Just two stitches. Well, three. Or…” He trails off. There are more than two or three stitches, but the two basic ones are all that he needs to mention. He doubts Tim and Sasha want to hear of the difficulties of lace making.

“Really?” Tim leans over, grabbing the arms of his office chair for stability. “Do you have any with you right now?”

Slowly, Martin reaches into his desk. It’s just a sock, double pointed needles always threatening to stab him when he reaches for a pen or something, but it’s impressive enough.

Impressive enough to Tim and Sasha, who stare as he grabs the working needle and demonstrates with a few rows.

Sasha shakes her head. “I – my gran knits, you know? But I’ve never seen her make socks.”

“Did she try to teach you?” Martin asks, jabbing the working needle back into the yarn and returning his project to the desk drawer.

“Yeah, but I don’t have the patience. I think I made half a scarf when I was eight.” She laughs. “I wanted to get into trouble, not make clothes or whatever.”

Tim nods. “Absolutely none of my relatives knit,” he declares. “And my mother has a burning hatred for it after her cat tried to kill itself by eating an entire ball of yarn.”

Martin winces. “That’s, ah.”

“Not good,” Tim finishes. “He lived, of course. I think he’s too stupid to die – still kicking, even now.”

The conversation is cut short by someone clearing their throat.

The assistants don’t all turn at once to face whoever made the noise. Sasha’s attention is on fixing her ponytail, and Tim’s staring absently at Martin.

Martin looks over, and sees….

Oh.

Jon.

_Oh_.

//

Jon resists the urge to twist his hands in the cuffs of Martin’s jumper.

Martin’s staring at him like he’s some horror movie monster, face pale and drawn. Sasha blinks vacantly at him when she glances over, before calmly moving her laptop back on her desk and firmly planting her face on the freed desk space. Tim gawks, blatantly and unashamedly, mouth open slightly and eyebrows raised.

Jon clears his throat again.

“Did, ah.” He fights back the urge to fidget. “Did it – did it work?”

Sasha doesn’t move her head, but holds up a thumbs up. “You’re good,” she says, voice muffled by the desk.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Tim says, voice fervent and quiet. “You – fuck.”

“You’re wearing my clothes,” Martin squeaks.

“I – I apologize,” Jon says, shifting. “It’s been a while since I did laundry, and most laundromats don’t react well to cats.”

“I threw out your shirt.”

“Yes, you did.” Jon shrugs one shoulder. “But you didn’t throw out my shoes, which I think is more important.”

“We carted you around for a month.”

“Mhm.”

Martin says something in horrified Polish.

“I’m not sure what you just said, but I believe you’re blameless, considering.” Jon waves vaguely at nothing in particular. “The past, well.”

“Fuck,” Tim repeats. “A month. Fuck.”

“Twenty-seven days,” Jon corrects automatically. “…I’m sorry. I’ll – well, I was quite serious. I’ll just, go speak with Elias, then?”

Sasha stands, sudden enough that her chair is knocked back and knocked over. “We’ll all go,” she declares. “He’ll be calling us up soon enough, we might as well get it over.”

Jon shifts. “That’s not necessary –” he begins, but Sasha shakes her head with enough force that she hits herself in the face with her own ponytail.

“Let’s just get it over with,” she repeats. “Did –”

“Elias knew,” Jon confirms. “I’m not sure if you remember the video, but –”

Martin hides his face in his hands.

“I mean it when I say that none of you are at fault,” Jon says. “The circumstances were completely out of your control, and I can’t –”

Sasha cuts him off with a sharp clap as she turns to look at Tim and Martin. “Come on, boys,” she orders. “Let’s get this over with.”

Tim stands first, walking over to Martin and hauling him up with a hand on Martin’s elbow. “Let’s go,” Tim agrees. “After you, boss.”

Jon shifts from foot to foot. “You might want to go first,” he says, gesturing to his feet. “I’m afraid stairs are a bit treacherous at the moment. I don’t want to fall on any of you.”

Sasha shakes her head yet again. “Well, what’s one more time?” She holds her arms out. “We’ve gotten this far. I’ll help you up the stairs.”

“That’s not necessary, I promise –”

Sasha has always moved quickly. She advances on Jon, turning in front of him and dropping to one knee. “Get on,” she orders. “I’m not carrying you like some swooning heroine in a stupid old movie.”

Jon falters for a moment longer, but Sasha throws an unimpressed look over her shoulder, and he obeys.

“Let’s go,” Sasha says one more time. “Let’s get this over with.”

//

Elias responds immediately when Jon knocks, quiet as Jon’s knock is.

“Come in,” Elias says. “All of you.”

The assistants collectively exchange a worried look. But they follow Jon in, gather around him in front of Elias’ desk.

Elias smiles at Jon. “I see you’ve made your way out of that mess,” he says, putting his pen down and closing his day planner. “Good. Any ill effects?”

Jon shakes his head. “No. None that I’m aware of.”

“Your eyes, I feel obligated to tell you, are still... colorful.”

Jon flinches, ever so slightly, one hand making an abortive movement towards his face like he’s going to touch his eyes, digs his fingers into them and pull them out to check, look for the headache-inducing color that _must_ be different. It must be. He's human now. But he can't check, not yet. “Oh,” is all Jon manages.

“Yes. Oh.” Elias sweeps his gaze over the four of them. “Is there an issue?”

“I’d like – I – I’d –” Jon stammers, and falls silent, mouth moving and lips forming words that don’t come out. His hands flutter, expression slowly twisting into something worried and slightly scared, an expression that Jon doesn’t bother trying to hide.

His predicament had damaged his filter, Elias notes. Quite a bit, considering how he fidgets and how open his face is.

“I… I can’t.” Jon’s face shifts into something else, something Elias doesn’t need to read.

“Yes, I figured as much.” Elias sighs. “That’s a downside of the Archives. They’re quite… possessive of their Archivists, you see. It’s unfortunate.”

“They’re _what_?” Tim demands. “It’s an archive! What do you mean, _possessive_?”

Elias raises an eyebrow. “Don’t take that tone with me,” he says sharply. “A good Archivist is difficult to find, and I’m afraid our founder went quite above and beyond in ensuring they stayed on.”

“And the rest of us?” Sasha’s voice is steady, and her calm expression looks quite a bit like the one Elias saw on Angela’s face when he thought to check in on them.

“Why would I fire you?” Elias asks. “You worked quite well, despite the circumstances.”

“We –” Tim gestures wordlessly to Jon.

“Yes, but you also believed him to be a cat,” Elias says. “You’re rather blameless in that, I believe. Now, I think this all justifies a day off, yes? Go home, calm down, and I expect to see you here tomorrow. Oh, and Jon?”

Jon blinks at Elias.

“Your bank account remained unchanged throughout this whole affair, so your flat is still your own and your paycheck has been processed correctly.”

Jon nods, face still blank and eyes still shocked.

“And I think you know that those clothes are hardly work appropriate.”

//

They make it out of the office before Jon starts laughing. It’s not genuine laughter, nothing born of cheer and mirth – no, it’s hysterical laughter that bursts from him and makes his chest heave, makes him collapse against the wall and slowly slide to the floor as he shakes and laughs, buries his head in his hands.

It reminds Tim of the Batman cartoons he watched when he was younger. Of the Joker’s gas.

And they all just stand there, impotent and frozen as Jon breaks down in the hallway and has a fit. One that makes Tim’s chest ache in sympathy, that makes Martin itch to reach out and gently comfort. One that makes Sasha _deeply_ worried because the Jon she’s known for years is not like this.

But Jon calms. It takes several moments, but the laughter trickles to a stop, and he slowly raises his head to reveal a face smeared with tears and snot. And Jon makes a move to wipe his face clean with the cuff of Martin’s sweater – one that Martin had made last year – but seems to catch himself.

“I apologize,” Jon manages after a moment of slow breathing. “I – I meant what I said in the video. I’m very sorry for all this, and I hope you know that I wish none of it had happened. Tim, Martin, if you could give me rough estimates of how much I owe you, I’ll – I’ll – I’ll send you money or get cash, I don’t know. I’ll have some way to pay you back by tomorrow, I promise.” He grabs his braid, fumbling the hairtie from the end, and offering it to Sasha. “I’m afraid mine got lost towards the beginning of the month,” he explains. “And I wasn’t quite able to get to my flat to get a replacement…”

Martin flinches slightly as Sasha reaches out and takes the hairtie.

“And – Sasha, I’m not paying you back for the nail clippers.”

Sasha laughs shortly, harshly. “Believe me, I wasn’t going to ask.” She holds a hand out, and as Tim and Martin watch, Jon takes the hand and carefully clambers to his feet. “Come on, let’s get you a cab home or something. No way you can use the train with your feet like that.”

Jon grimaces. “Yes, I – I’ll pay you back for the fare,” he says to Martin and Tim. “I’ll – if you wouldn’t mind emailing me how much I owe you, I’ll be sure to pay you back.”

Martin still seems frozen, arms hanging limply at his sides.

“And I’ll wash your clothes,” Jon adds. “I’ll have them to you by tomorrow.”

That snaps Tim from his reverie. “Believe me, I don’t care about timing, and I don’t think Martin does, either. Just give them back when they’re clean.”

Jon smiles tentatively.

He’s still shaking, Tim realizes. And his face is open in a way that Tim’s never seen.

Well, never seen when they all knew Jon was human.

“Let’s get you a cab,” Sasha repeats. “You’re a mess.”

Jon huffs a small laugh, and runs a hand over his face. “I believe I’ve quite passed that.”

//

Jon’s apartment is quite musty, but everything is untouched. It’s all the way he’d left it, nearly a month ago, when he’d had the opportunity to briefly flee Martin’s apartment to grab clothes and a hairbrush.

He’ll need to email Martin about the laundry he stashed under Martin’s bed, Jon realizes. Finding your boss’ literal dirty laundry from the month that he’d spent intruding on your space and ignoring your boundaries – that would not be a pleasant experience.

At least he’d done the dishes then. Finding an ecosystem growing in a mug of half-finished tea would just make this all worse.

Jon’s clothes smell just as musty, and he can’t help but grimace as he pulls on an old sweatshirt he’d bought years ago at a thrift store after getting caught in a downpour and desperately needing _something_ dry. But they’re his clothes.

Martin’s clothes go in a neatly folded pile by his dresser. Tim’s clothes go in a neatly folded pile next to that.

And Jon goes to bed. He’ll shower later, when he has the energy to clean what must but a month’s worth of dust from the bathroom.

It’s been a rather taxing day, after all. His teeth will survive one night without brushing.

His bed is cold, his mattress is quite reminiscent of Martin’s, and the single blanket provides no kind of comforting weight.

But even scrounging every spare blanket he has – which involves going through cardboard boxes and killing eight different spiders, since he’d never unpacked fully – doesn’t turn up more than four blankets.

His bed is cold, and Jon has nothing to curl around or curl towards, and the extra blankets don’t do much.

But it’s his bed, and that’s what matters, Jon supposes.

(He doesn’t dream, and Jon’s not sure if that’s good or bad.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm now going to go to bed and hide  
> also can we just appreciate that this is the bit that i wanted most to write. and it took me. _sixty eight goddamn thousand words._ to get here. also is nowhere near as funny as i initially imagined, and is more an intense release of trauma that does not turn into shenanigans. whoops.  
> ...it's gonna be a fun few chapters before cuddles come back. fyi.


	33. Wednesday, Day 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sasha go out for Chinese food, and Sasha maintains sole custody of the brain cell.
> 
> Martin and Tim have an existential crisis. 
> 
> Jon goes shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mind the changed tags  
> ...which is to say, now yall know which brand of gay is going to happen
> 
> notes, though: i'm going to change from the daily play by play (tuesday, day 27, wednesday, day 28, etc), and am going to skips over days so that things can get moving, and also so that this doesn't end up over a hundred chapters long
> 
> also cw for continuous drinking

Jon wakes up to his phone shrieking at him in a way that effortlessly puts Martin’s slew of alarms to shame, blaring at him and lighting up his room and making Jon regret ever getting anything more recent than a flip phone from the nineties.

Sasha’s calling him.

It’s about four in the morning, and Sasha’s calling him.

Jon groans, but sits up, grabbing the phone. “Hello?”

“Jon!” Sasha’s voice is cheerful, cheerful in a way that was usually Tim’s domain. “My favorite Chinese place is still open. Would you like to go out?”

Jon blinks slowly, and flops back onto his bed. “They’re – Sasha, it’s the middle of the night.”

“Morning,” Sasha corrects. “They have good dumplings, and their food gets nice and spicy. Do you want to go? It’s just me, Martin and Tim aren’t coming.”

Jon falters. It’s – well, he’s not exactly surprised that Martin and Tim wouldn’t want to go to something Jon’s been invited to. But…

“Yes,” Jon says, sitting up. “That’d be nice.”

//

“So.” Tim looks down at his bottle of glorified drain cleaner. “I. Can you face him?”

Martin groans, hiding his face in the throw pillow again. “Nose kisses, Tim. We gave him nose kisses.”

“Hey, at least you didn’t grope him!”

Martin groans again, making grabby hands in Tim’s general direction for the bottle. “Tim. Tim, you saw the sweater.”

“That’s one of yours?” Tim asks, handing over the bottle.

“Tim, I _made_ that.”

“Impressive.”

“Tim.”

“You’d really like to see him in your clothes again?”

Martin groans, and knocks back a hefty gulp.

//

“Elias emailed us,” Sasha says conversationally once the dumplings had been served, stabbing one with her chopsticks and frowning as the filling spilled out.

Jon sighs, and delicately grabs one of the non-disemboweled dumplings. “What… what did he say?” There’s trepidation clear on his face, clear in how his free hand has begun to shake.

“He’ll still yell at us over neon clothes –”

Jon winces.

“—don’t worry, your eyes don’t count. But also, he’s giving us the rest of the week off. For some reason.”

Jon sighs, taking a slow bite of dumpling. “Truly, we’ll never know,” he mutters dryly, and Sasha laughs.

“It’s nice, though. My gran wants me to come around and help her clear out space for her to set up another puzzle.”

Jon nods, popping the rest of the dumpling in his mouth.

“Do you need any help at your place?” Sasha asks, point blank. “Being out for a month, it’s got to be dirty.”

Jon shrugs, putting his chopsticks down and grabbing a piece of chicken from his place with his fingers. “It’s not that bad,” he says, taking a small and careful bite.

Sasha doesn’t comment on the lack of utensils.

“Nothing worse than cleaning out the fridge and dusting,” Jon says, swallowing. “It could be worse.”

Sasha shrugs. “I’m not going to force it, but you have my number,” she says frankly, and promptly gives up on the chopsticks, following Jon’s lead and just picking her food up with her fingers.

//

“At least we never actually cut his hair,” Martin says. He’s flopped over onto his back now, staring mournfully up at the ceiling.

Tim groans. “I sniffed his hair.”

“I dragged him out of his own office,” Martin points out.

“I sniffed his hair –” Tim stops. Blanches. “I nearly fucking murdered our boss.”

“You _what_?”

“I nearly murdered him.” Tim grabs the bottle from Martin and takes a swig. “Well, we’re almost out of this.”

“I have some wine in the fridge,” Martin says immediately. “But you nearly murdered him? What did you _do_?”

“Okay, Artefact Storage.” Tim sighs, and drains the rest of the bottle. “I was chasing him, and grabbed him, and apparently grabbed him by the hair.”

Martin winces. “How bad…?”

“There was a loud crack.”

“Oh.” Martin groans, and grabs the throw pillow from Tim, burying his face in it and breathing in deep.

“Yeah. Oh.”

//

“I wouldn’t mind help,” Jon says, after the silence has dragged on for several minutes, several minutes of Jon eating with his fingers and taking tiny bites.

“Cleaning your flat?”

“Yes.” Jon shrugs.

He’s not in Martin’s clothes anymore, but he doesn’t look comfortable.

“Well, I’m free for the rest of the week, apparently.” Sasha flashes a grin, and pops a piece of broccoli whole into her mouth.

“Aren’t you…”

“Visiting my gran,” Sasha finishes, holding her hand to her mouth as she speaks around her mouthful of food. “But I can do that later in the week, if you want my help.”

Jon looks down at his food, at his sauce-stained fingertips. “…I would appreciate it.”

//

“You know, I had him in my lap when I called my babcia,” Martin says, staring mournfully at the half-empty bottle of cheap wine he’d had in his fridge.

“Isn’t she Catholic?”

“Lapsed Catholic,” Martin corrects. “But, uh. Yeah. I don’t think I’ll call her for a bit.”

Tim shrugs. “I spent an entire day in bed with him watching cartoons and Netflix.”

Martin sighs. “I – is it bad that I’m jealous?”

“You’re a disaster, Martin.”

“I never said I wasn’t,” Martin says, more than a bit defensive. “I measured your feet for handknit socks, that’s – that’s pure disaster knitter!”

“You haven’t done that yet.” Tim wiggles his feet at Martin – feet still clad in shoes.

“Oh.” Martin hands the wine to Tim, and slides off the couch to sprawl on the floor. “His singing was nice, though.”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “His singing was _feral_.”

Martin blinks up at Tim. “It was nice,” he insists. “Soothing. He sang to me when we first – when we first thought the Archives were, uh. Haunted. I got scared.”

Tim shakes his head. “I’m not saying you’re misremembering, but maybe your giant gay crush –”

“I’m not misremembering!” Martin sits up, wincing as his back protests. He’s too old for this.

He’s in his twenties, but he’s still too old for this.

“His singing was really quite nice,” Martin continues. “And – oh, god, I had him in my lap the entire time.” Martin returns to his position on the floor, and Tim laughs.

//

“I don’t really think –” Jon sighs, tapping his fingertips quickly against the tabletop. “It’s. I know you’d be a better choice. This past month has shown that, but if I –” He gestures helplessly.

Sasha nods. She’s torn, a bit. Being passed over for a promotion in favor of _Jon_ still stings. But considering the past month, and the fact that Jon’s apparently now trapped in the Archives and can’t quit, she’s not quite sure being passed over was such a bad thing.

“And I’m not sure.” Jon sighs. “I’m – well. Elias didn’t say if – if you three are also, well, _stuck_.”

Sasha stares at Jon. “You think we can’t quit, either?”

“Elias said he wouldn’t fire you,” Jon says, propping his chin on his hand. “He said, ‘why would I fire you,’ not ‘I can’t fire you,’ or something of the kind. If I can’t quit, I assume I can’t be fired. Which brings up the question of whether you are… stuck.”

Sasha, for want of anything else to do, takes a sip of water.

“I don’t know, and I don’t know if he will tell me,” Jon continues. “He was supportive throughout the past month, but I can’t – I don’t know –” Jon sighs. “I don’t know if he’ll be able to say for sure. He knows about the archivist position, but is that because of Gertrude?”

Sasha puts her glass down. “You ever meet Gertrude?”

Jon shakes his head. “Not really. I saw her at a Christmas party, I think.”

“Holiday party,” Sasha corrects on reflex, and Jon laughs.

“There was a massive tree and multiple people were wearing hats,” he says dryly. “It was a Christmas party.”

“But according to HR, it was a holiday party,” Sasha insists. But her expression breaks, and she smiles at Jon. “I met Gertrude once.”

“What was she like?”

//

“Do you think he’ll want his spare toothbrush back?” Martin asks, staring at his cup of herbal tea. Tim just shrugs, scooting towards Martin and throwing an arm over Martin’s shoulders.

“Who’s to say,” he says. “But you’re warm, Jesus.”

Martin flushes. “Well, I don’t know what you expect.”

“Clearly, I expect you to be as freezing as a Polish winter,” Tim says with a laugh.

“Do you even know what Polish winters are like?”

“…No, but I’m guessing they’re cold.”

Martin laughs slightly, and leans into Tim. “You’re warm, too.”

//

Sasha casts her eyes around Jon’s apartment. It’s cold, dusty, and there are literally still boxes from when Jon moved in. Whenever that was.

“Do you want help unpacking?” she asks, hanging her coat up and tossing her boots towards the door.

“No, no.” Jon leans against the wall, awkwardly toeing off his shoes. “I can finish that this week. Since I’ll have the week off, apparently.”

Sasha shrugs. “Well, you have my number, if you want help.”

Jon nods absently, hanging up his coat. “Thank you, Sasha. I’ll just – if you’d start dusting, I’ll deal with spoiled food?”

Sasha nods. “Just tell me what to do.”

Jon smiles at her, an awkward and shy thing that looks painfully out of place. “Thank you. I’ll just be a minute.”

He still hobbles, Sasha notes. She hasn’t exactly gotten a look at his feet, not after the initial video (and that was a disgusting image. Sasha _really_ doesn’t like seeing injures), but he looks like an old man with how he walks.

“I have some crutches,” she offers. “I injured my ankle a while back. Do you want to borrow them?”

But Jon just waves her off. “No, I have my grandmother’s old cane,” he says. “I – I can manage, after all.”

Sasha nods.

She’s not going to press him into anything. She’ll volunteer help, but she’s not going to press him.

//

Martin wakes up warm, with an aching neck and a throbbing head. He grumbles, turning slightly towards whatever warm thing is slumped next to him, and buries his face in it.

It rumbles slightly with a warm laugh – a laugh that repeats when Martin grumbles again.

His head hurts, his neck hurts, and his phone alarm hasn’t gone off yet. There’s absolutely no reason for him to be awake.

//

“Do you mind if I put on a podcast?” Jon asks, once he’s returned from carting the (small, humorously small, containing a carton of three eggs, a loaf of bread, and a half a block of cheese) bag of spoiled food out of the apartment. Sasha had offered to carry it, but Jon had said no.

“What kind of podcast?” Sasha asks, twisting to look at him. She’s perched on the counter, rag in hand to clean off the top of the fridge.

“…it’s comedy,” Jon admits. “It’s – it’s meaningless fun.”

Sasha smiles at him. “So long as it’s in English,” she says, and Jon huffs a small laugh.

“I can’t find any good ones that aren’t in English,” he mutters, tucking his hair behind his ear and grabbing his phone. “And I’m afraid my Greek was put on hold for… obvious reasons.”

Sasha laughs, and waves the rag at Jon. “Hey.”

Jon looks up, face curious.

Sasha holds out a hairtie. “I’ll be getting this back from you,” she says, “but it looks like you need it.”

Jon stares for a moment, then huffs a laugh. “Thank you,” he says, putting his phone down and taking the hairtie. “It’s a bit –”

“It’s long,” Sasha cuts in. “How do you keep it looking nice?”

“Hair oil,” Jon says, sliding the hairtie onto his wrist and sectioning his hair into neat, smooth chunks. “And – have you heard of hair masks?”

“What, like face masks?”

“Yes, but for hair.”

It’s kind of impressive, Sasha has to admit, seeing just how quickly Jon braids his hair, twisting the thick chunks into a smooth braid that nearly hits his waist.

“How does that not give you a headache?” Sasha asks, raising her eyebrows.

“It does,” Jon says. “But keeping it down is –”

“Impractical,” Sasha finishes. “My gran loves your hair, though.”

Jon blinks at her in surprise. “Oh. Have I met her?”

“No, we brought your video to her place because she has a VCR.” Sasha shrugs, and returns to her dusting. “She wanted to know why I don’t grow mine out like yours.”

“Don’t,” Jon says immediately. “It’s not worth the effort of unclogging the drain every week.”

Sasha laughs. “Or the headaches?”

Jon shrugs. “I can live with the headaches,” he says. “You go through quite a bit of shampoo and conditioner in a week, though.”

“Mm, I can see that. My gran still thinks it’s pretty. You probably shouldn’t visit, unless you want her to guilt you into letting her play with it.”

Jon frowns – finally, an expression that Sasha recognizes. “I’ve had quite a lot of time building up resistance to that,” he mutters sourly.

“Like iocane powder?”

Jon blinks at her. “Like what?”

//

“Martin, where are your spices?”

Martin looks blankly at Tim. “They’re next to the stove.”

“Martin,” Tim says patiently, “this is a sampling of flavors. This is not a spice collection.”

“Those are what I use.”

Tim closes his eyes in mock despair. “Martin, I am trying to help you here,” he says. “You allow me to pass out drunk on your couch, it’s only fair I make you breakfast. And you tell me that this is all that you have?”

Martin blushes. “It is,” he mumbles.

“Well, any other birthday present is cancelled. We’re getting you spices.”

//

“Offer of crutches is still open,” Sasha says, lacing up her boots. But Jon just smiles at her, awkwardness tinged with thankfulness.

“Thank you, but I don’t need them,” he repeats. “I have my grandmother’s cane around somewhere.”

Sasha shrugs. “You have two feet,” she points out. “Hairtie?”

Jon pulls the hairtie from his braid, obediently handing it over.

“Thank you.”

//

“I’m just saying, there’s a shop down the street and you have Netflix,” Tim says. “We can absolutely get wine drunk and ignore our problems again.”

“Tim…” Martin doesn’t comment on how appealing that sounds, the further company and the noise that would fill the emptiness of his flat, emptiness that has been much less empty for the past month.

Because he forced his boss to stay with him.

“…Do you prefer white or red?”

Tim grins at Martin.

//

Amazon is, at times, a marvel. That is a statement that Jon will stand by, as he drags the box into his flat and attacks the tape with a pair of scissors until his bounty is revealed.

_Blankets_.

They’ll need to be washed to get rid of the factory scent, but Jon can’t quite bring himself to care. No, he just piles them atop his bed, and crawls underneath the comforting weight.

It may be mid-afternoon, but he’s been up since four, had a rather interesting day yesterday, and spent the majority of the morning cleaning his apartment with the one coworker who doesn’t probably hate him.

Going to bed in the middle of the afternoon, Jon decides, is utterly justified.

(He also got a thoroughly oversized jumper. They’re surprisingly comfy. And a pair of ill-fitting leggings meant for exercise. Those are also quite comfortable to sleep in.)

//

“Blanket forts are absolutely an adult activity,” Tim insists, tilting a couch cushion _just so_. “There’s wine involved, it’s an adult activity. Come on, we might as well. It’s not like there’s anybody who’s going to make fun of us.”

Martin shifts awkwardly, arms full of blankets.

“Unless you want to take pictures and post them to your Instagram. You know, break up the stream of knitting?”

Martin sighs at Tim, and hands over the blankets. “ _Fine_.”

Tim laughs. “Come on, then, help me spread these out. Got to have the proper blanket positioning, you know?”

Martin laughs despite himself. “Yeah, I know.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so im not sure how i feel about the cutting back and forth between the same scenes, but anyway
> 
> i probably won't have another chapter up for a couple days, since i need to. yknow. plot shit out.


	34. Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha and Jon visit a store with incredibly friendly employees. 
> 
> Tim and Martin continue to be disasters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> watch me plagiarize a line from canon

“Are you up?” Sasha asks, the moment Jon picks up the phone.

“No, Sasha, I’m sleeptalking,” Jon says sarcastically, then sighs. “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. What do you need?”

Sasha just laughs at him. “Don’t stop your snark on my account,” she teases. “Here, let me –” and she hangs up.

Jon barely has a moment to look at his phone in confusion before she calls back, FaceTime filling his screen with an even brighter light, because he’s apparently turning into Martin and neglected to turn down his screen brightness before going to bed.

Sasha’s hair is pulled back into rather sloppy braid, a messiness that spoke of no practice instead of artful intent. “So, you mentioned hair masks,” she says without preamble, propping her chin on her hand.

The clock on Jon’s phone reads half four in the morning.

Why Sasha is consistently up at four in the morning, Jon doesn’t want to know.

“Anyway,” Sasha continues, “my hair is a bit of a mess.”

“You just need to practice braiding,” Jon says immediately.

“Beyond that,” Sasha says. “I don’t exactly have anything planned today. Want to…?”

“Do hair masks together?” Jon finishes.

Sasha grins, adjusting her glasses. “Exactly.”

“…The store doesn’t open until ten,” Jon says, “and I don’t have any at the moment.”

“Then I’ll come by, and we can watch _Princess Bride_ , and then we can go shopping later?” Sasha offers.

“I’ve seen it,” Jon says.

“Then why don’t you know what iocane powder is?”

“…I slept through it?”

Jon is treated to a rather blurry view of Sasha’s ceiling as Sasha drops her phone in shock.

“You _what_?”

“I was tired,” Jon defends, crossing his free arm over his chest and pulling his knees up. Or, trying to, and only succeeding in getting his legs tangled in the throw blankets providing a foundation and knocking off one of the quilts on top.

“I still don’t get it,” Sasha says, picking her phone up. “How do you sleep through _The Princess Bride_?”

Jon shrugs awkwardly. “So, ah – when should I expect you?”

“That depends. Can I convince you that getting dumplings is a good idea?”

“Well, I have no food at the moment.”

Sasha grins. “Dumplings it is! So, maybe an hour?”

Jon nods, and she flashes him a thumbs up that Jon awkwardly mirrors.

“See you then!”

The call ends, and Jon flops backwards into bed with a groan. It’s too early. Even for him.

//

“Do you think the store does delivery?”

“Tim, it’s a liquor store,” Martin says, staring at his coffee with a thoroughly disgusted expression, bottle of painkillers still sitting in front of him. “It’s not a pizza place.”

“Pizza does sound good, though,” Tim says thoughtfully, “and I am absolutely willing to spend a stupid amount of money on alcohol and carryout for the next few days until we have to face Jon again. Since you don’t have _any bloody spices_.”

“I can cook!” Martin snaps, glowering at Tim. Tim just shrugs, unrepentant.

“Well, I need to go back to my apartment anyway,” he says, “so we could always switch hiding spots. I can show you what a proper spice collection looks like.”

Martin sighs, and drains the mug of coffee fast enough that Tim’s vaguely worried he’s going to choke. “My spices are completely fine,” he says, standing.

“You have eight. Two of which are salt and pepper.”

“But that’s all I need!”

“Martin. Martin.” Tim shakes his head, taking the mug from Martin’s hand and turning to the sink, turning the hot water on. “Martin, you need more spices than that. You don’t even have seasoning mixes.”

Martin scowls at Tim. “I can make seasoning mixes.”

“Not with eight spices, you can’t.”

“ _Tim_.”

“Look. I’m just saying, let’s get you some cookbooks that aren’t Polish cookbooks from – what, World War I?”

“Before that,” Martin corrects. “And I have other cookbooks!”

“Google doesn’t count, Martin.” Tim sighs. “Not to be the kind of person to judge what you eat –”

“Tim, you are doing exactly that.”

“Look, don’t you want some variety? There’s plenty of food you can cook for cheap. Even counting spices.”

Martin sighs. “Tim…”

“Just saying. I’ll cook for you today, you’ll see what I mean,” Tim promises. “I’ll even tone done the spiciness so you can eat it without needing milk, okay? Since I only have coconut milk, and I’m tired of that.”

“Why are you tired of _coconut milk_?” Martin asks, raising his eyebrows.

“When Jon’s hands were messed up –”

Martin winces.

“Oh god, what did you do?”

“…I hand fed him.”

“Oh my god.”

“Well, he wasn’t eating!” Martin frowns at Tim. “He’s scrawny, I was worried.”

“You hand fed him. And he actually went with it?”

“Yeah, surprisingly.”

Tim shakes his head. “Look, you pack an overnight bag or something, we’ll go over to my place, and get thoroughly wine drunk while I ply you with spicy food. Sound good?”

“Yeah,” Martin sighs. “Sounds good.”

//

“So, that store attendant was _very_ friendly,” Sasha says, stuffing the bag with their purchases into her purse.

“They’re like that,” Jon agrees. “I prefer to order online.”

“So they don’t guilt you into leaving with more than you went in for?”

“You’re the one who bought the soap, Sasha.”

Sasha looks down at her purse, which is quickly beginning to smell like cinnamon. “It smells nice, you have to admit.”

“It does,” Jon agrees.

“They’re always like that?”

“They’re always like that.”

“…Huh. How much do they pay their workers to get them to be like that all the time?”

Jon shrugs, leaning heavily on a cane definitely too tall for him. “I can’t say.”

“Have you ever gotten dragged into a conversation like that?”

Jon nods. “I once went in right after opening on a Saturday, and spent two hours talking about ethics with an employee.”

“Did you even buy anything?”

“I did not.”

Sasha laughs. “Seriously?”

“I forgot!”

She shakes her head, still laughing. “Really. Okay then.”

“I did get a sample of one of their scrubs, though.”

“That’s something,” Sasha says.

“Apparently, I got rather animated about the whole thing.” Jon shifts awkwardly, wincing as he puts pressure on the wrong parts of his feet. “It’s quite interesting, I suppose. It isn’t exactly optimistic, but it’s quite interesting.”

“That’s how a long of things are,” Sasha agrees. “So what’s up with the ethics of animal testing and difficulty of sourcing ethical ingredients?”

“Well…”

//

“What, and you just leave it in?”

“It’s just like a face mask,” Jon repeats, carefully rubbing the thick cream-like substance into his hair.

“For how long?”

“The instructions say twenty minutes.”

“And how long do _you_ usually leave it in?”

Jon doesn’t look at her.

“Jon? Do you just forget about it?”

“No, because if I do, it gets all over the furniture,” he points out.

“So how long do you leave it in?”

“I have left it in for a few hours.”

Sasha laughs. “Of course you have.”

“I was reading at the table,” he defends, rubbing the ends of his hair between his fingertips.

“Interesting book?”

“No, but I’d gotten most of the way through it, so I wanted to finish.”

Sasha just shakes her head. “Not surprised, honestly. You done?”

Jon scrapes the last bit of cream out of his bowl, and quickly rubs it into his scalp. “Yes. Why?”

“Perfect!” Sasha grabs her phone, and leans against him.

“Sasha, what are you –”

“Smile!”

Jon is most definitely not smiling in the three pictures Sasha takes, but nor is he scowling and shoving Sasha away.

“Is it okay if I send these to Martin and Tim?” Sasha asks, pulling away.

“Hold on – Sasha –” Jon flails at her. “Our _hair_ –”

“Oh no.”

Their hair is indeed stuck together – hers from ear to tip, his from ear to… significantly far away from the tip, honestly.

Sasha laughs as they fumble, phone abandoned in her lap as Jon does his best to extricate his hair from hers and her attempts to help only stymie his actions.

“Sasha!” Jon swats her hands away, and finally pulls the last bit of his hair away from hers.

Sasha just grins at him. “Good job.”

Jon frowns at her, a familiar expression that Sasha never thought she’d be glad to see. And yet.

“I – I suppose you can send that picture,” Jon says slowly. “Though I’m not sure why they’d want to see it.”

“Because we’re adorable.”

“I am not adorable,” Jon says immediately. “I have never been adorable.”

“I don’t know if you’re lying to me or to yourself,” Sasha says, flicking over to the assistants groupchat and sending all three pictures. 

Tim sends back a selfie of himself pouting. Martin sends a frowning emoji.

“They definitely like it,” Sasha declares, and turns her phone off before Jon can ask to look. “Time for _Princess Bride_?”

“I… I guess so.” Jon looks doubtfully at her phone, but Sasha ignores the hint.

“Great! Time to pirate a movie.”

//

“You know, my gran wouldn’t mind meeting you,” Sasha says, toweling her hair dry and doing her best not to laugh at the sheer spectacle of Jon attempting to dry his own hair without drenching his shirt. “Do you want to come with, when I go visit her?”

“I shouldn’t,” Jon says immediately. “It’s – she’s your gran.”

“I can call her and check,” Sasha offers. “See if she’s okay. I can call her now and put her on speaker phone so you know I’m not lying.”

Jon doesn’t say anything.

“I’m not going to drag you along,” Sasha continues, “but I think she would enjoy meeting more of my friends. She worries, you know? Grandmothers.”

“I, ah.” Jon wrings his hair out one last time. “I don’t, but alright. If you think she’d like it.”

Sasha grins. “Alright! Do you want to finish the movie first?”

“Yes, I suppose that would be best.”

//

“You have to admit, it’s a cute picture,” Tim says, staring at his phone again.

“At least she knows he’s human,” Martin says, stabbing a piece of… something that he’d forgotten the name of, but it thoroughly stained red by whatever spices Tim had tossed in with abandon.

“That too,” Tim agrees, blindly fumbling for his mug of wine – mug, because Tim apparently had no proper wine glasses, and they’d agreed that if they were going to drink wine from thematically inappropriate drinking vessels, they might as well go all out – and coming dangerously close to knocking it over and spilling wine all over the floor.

Martin picks up the mug, grabs Tim’s hand, and puts the mug in said hand.

“Thanks,” Tim says absently, taking a sip. “Did you work as a bartender or something?”

“No, I worked in a coffee shop,” Martin says, turning his attention back to his spicy yet anonymous dish.

“Oh god, that’s worse.”

“Mornings,” Martin adds.

“ _Oh god, that’s worse_.”

“It wasn’t fun,” Martin agrees. “Well, we had a few regulars who were good, but it wasn’t fun overall.”

“How did you survive that?”

Martin shifts uncomfortably. It’s not like he had much of a _choice_ , after all – and his second job at been at a nice restaurant owned by a local couple, where he washed dishes and was completely sequestered away from the customers.

“I don’t think I want to know,” Tim admits. “That sounds awful.”

“Not always,” Martin says, stabbing again at his food with perhaps more force than is necessary.

“But most of the time?”

Martin doesn’t reply, and Tim leans against Martin.

“Well, now you get a new kind of horrible,” Tim says matter-of-factly. “And that kind of horrible is ‘Oh god, what did we do to our boss?’”

“I tried to garrote him.”

Tim pauses, wine halfway to his mouth. “Collar?”

“Collar.”

//

“There’s a coffeeshop nearby,” Sasha says as she puts on her coat. “Should we meet there around ten?”

Jon nods slowly, leaning against the wall. “That sounds good,” he agrees. “Do they have good tea?”

“No,” Sasha says immediately. “Tim drinks it, but it’s not worth it. Their lattes are good, though.”

Jon nods again. “I’ll… I’ll keep that in mind.”

“And my gran won’t let us go until she’s fed us,” Sasha adds. “Just so you know. And she cooks for quantity, not quality.”

“Studies show that quantity is the road to quality.”

“She’s old, if she hasn’t hit quality by now, she’s never going to.”

Jon huffs a small laugh. “Fair.”

“And did you see where my hairtie went?”

Jon shakes his head. “No, I’m afraid not. Is it in your purse?”

Sasha looks at her purse with a small degree of distaste on her face. “Maybe, but I’m not digging through that in search of a hairtie. I have extras at home.”

“You could empty it on the table before you leave?”

Sasha wiggles her feet. “I already put my shoes on.”

Jon shrugs. “That’s fair. Do you need – text me how much the dumplings were?”

Sasha shrugs. “Let’s just call it backpay for all the drinks you would have bought me over the last month,” she suggests.

“Sasha, I never go out for drinks.”

“Hush, let me dream.”

That pulls a small smile out of Jon, a tiny and awkward thing that looks out of place.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Sasha says, “I have places to be. Makeup to put on. A man to probably terrorize. I don't suppose you know of any single men who can actually carry a conversation, besides Tim?”

Jon’s smile grows, and he opens the door for Sasha. “Good luck.”

“That's a no, then.”

//

The apartment is empty, after Sasha leaves. Empty and quiet, and Jon has little to distract him from his aching feet and still-damp hair.

Well, his computer is sitting on the table, and it’s not like he thought to bring any work home.

He sighs, and limps over, grabbing the laptop before returning to the couch. His bed is a bit too far away, and there are blankets strewn about the room from Sasha’s insistence that he keeps his flat frigid.

He’s not sure what episode he’s on, but surely it’s still the first arc?

…maybe Jon should start over. They’re still going to be funny, surely, even if he knows what’s happening?

And the intro music is big enough, dramatic enough, to break the silence of the flat. And the blankets are still warm.

It’s enough, Jon supposes.

//

“Are you making pierogi?” Tim asks, leaning against the counter. Martin tosses him a half-hearted glare, and grabs his mug of wine.

“I don’t just cook Polish food, you know,” Martin snaps.

Tim shrugs, apologetic, and pats Martin’s elbow. “Your only cookbook is a Polish cookbook, and you crooned at Jon in Polish for a month,” he explains.

Martin huffs. “Still. Leave off, okay?”

Tim gives Martin a thumbs up. “Will do. So, what are you making?”

“Snickerdoodles. Angela made some when we visited, and they smelled good, so…”

“So you raided my recipes for something you've never eaten?”

Martin shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Carry on, then.”

(The resulting snickerdoodles are not horrible. A bit too sweet, since Martin seems to have added more sugar than called for, but good. Sasha demands they save some and bring them to work. Tim says no, and laughs at the resulting selfie of Sasha glaring.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it occurs to me that both martin and jon are highly ooc for s1, in that they both speedran their emotional development. because apparently ranting at a cat is good therapy, and being ranted to by somebody who thinks you're a cat is very enlightening


	35. Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha rewatches a video.
> 
> Jon gets adopted.
> 
> Presumably, some poor fucker is going to be chopped up by a series of accidents.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will i stop talking about knitting in this? yes. when? not sure. 
> 
> but more importantly!! -> https://cucumberkale.tumblr.com/post/617870815945457664/oh-uh-martin-looks-up-shifts-awkwardly look! lookit!

“Are you sure she doesn’t mind?” Jon asks one last time, even as they stand on Angela’s doorstep, hands wrapped around a cinnamon flavored latte.

Sasha rolls her eyes fondly, knocking on the door. “She’ll be fine,” Sasha promises. “And she has a cat.”

Jon smiles awkwardly.

The door opens, as doors are wont to do when visitors are expected and welcome, and Angela is standing there, smiling widely at Sasha and Jon. “Jon, I assume?” Angela says without preamble. “Come in, come in. It’s cold out.”

They file in, Jon trailing after Sasha, hat pulled low over his ears and braid draped over his shoulder, nearly reaching his waist. He watches at Angela pulls Sasha into a hug while Sasha’s only taken off one boot, watch as Sasha laughs fondly and nearly topples over.

“Really, Sasha, why can’t you grow your hair out like that?” Angela says, letting go of Sasha and gesturing at Jon.

“Because it’ll take me years!”

Angela turns to Jon. “How long did it take you?”

Jon pauses where he’s removing his boots, hat already stuffed in a coat pocket. “I’ve never had short hair,” he says.

“See?” Sasha says triumphantly. “And my hair is plenty long enough! Come on, gran, it hits my collarbones.”

Angela just shakes her head at Sasha, and fondly tugs on a lock of Sasha’s hair. “And his is to his waist,” Angela says. “Come in, come in, I have tea brewing. Have you eaten yet?”

“Nope,” Sasha says, hanging up her coat and scarf and following Angela deeper into the house. The scarf is handknit, Jon notices – pale blue, with the heft of wool but the sheen of silk, neat ribbing ending in fringe. It took a month and a half, because of Angela’s hands.

But Jon follows them into the house, passes paintings and jigsaw puzzles and family pictures that all litter the walls, until they emerge into a cluttered living room with an heirloom spinning wheel that belonged first to Angela’s great grandmother, bright green yarn sitting in progress on the bobbins.

“Sit down,” Angela says, waving towards the couches. Sasha flops down with the grace of practice, grabbing a thick microfiber blanket and pulling it over her lap.

But when Jon goes to sit, Angela speaks again.

“Jon, do you mind helping me in the kitchen?” she asks, raising her eyebrows politely. “I’m afraid my hip is acting up.”

Sasha stares at Angela, slack jawed, but Jon nods.

“Of course.”

Angela points through one doorway, and Jon obediently walks through, leaving the door ajar behind him.

And Angela turns to Sasha. “You left the tape here,” she says quietly. “I’m not sure if the audio will be fixed, but you might want to try.” There’s no conspiratorial smile, no mischievous grin. No, Angela’s face is serious as she speaks. “I’ll keep him busy.”

Sasha waits until Angela closes the door before standing, moving to the TV and VCR. The tape is still inside, ready to play – whether they’d left it as such, or Angela had prepared, Sasha’s not sure. She’d thought that Tim had taken the tape home with him, but apparently not.

The first scene with Jon is irrelevant – he’s just offering to pay Tim back for the pastry, and she’s heard that enough times already. Mostly as Jon quietly complaining about how Martin and Tim haven’t emailed him how much he owes.

It’s the monologue that she’s interested in. And the audio is functional, distorted only in the way old tapes are fond of.

_“Well. I hope this is not a fool’s errand…”_

And Sasha grabs her phone, turns the recorder on. Tim and Martin probably would want to hear it.

And if they didn’t, she’d make them. They already feel guilty, what’s a bit of exacerbation? Jon had had a month of this. What’s three minutes for them?

//

Sasha sits back on the couch. She’s not sure what she expected, considering Jon’s breakdown outside of Elias’ office, but that…

That. That was incredibly bleak. Jon’s comments about her qualifications ring hollow, knocked off their pedestal by his promise to leave the Archives when all was done.

Admittedly, Sasha was never the happiest about being passed over. But that’s the way of things, more often than not – glass ceilings don’t break easily.

But now, not only is Jon stuck in a position with no option to quiet, she’s stuck in her position as an assistant. No way to move up.

The bitterness tastes hollow, though. Jon wouldn’t have come across the Leitner if he hadn’t been the Archivist. Had she been promoted instead, then she would’ve been trapped for a month.

Sasha sends the file to Martin and Tim. Understandably, she doesn’t get a response.

But she hears noise in the kitchen, noise nearing the kitchen door, and stands quickly, turning off the TV and pulling the tape out, stuffing it in the TV stand among other nameless videos. It blends in well enough.

She’ll listen to her recording later. There’s too much to unpack.

It’s Angela who appears, though, tea in hand. “Well?” she asks quietly, handing the mug to Sasha.

Sasha just shrugs, but Angela understands.

//

Jon doesn’t have a whole lot of experience cooking. His grandmother had always been quick and sure in the kitchen, tossing together meals with a bored manner, no recipe in sight.

Angela, apparently, is different. She still has the confidence of decades spent cooking, still seasons to taste, snagging a small bite of dough to ensure it tastes right and then adding an unspecified amount of cinnamon, but she welcomes Jon’s help.

Which is to say, she hands him a fork and a bowl with chunks of butter, and tells him to beat it until it’s light and fluffy.

Jon’s arms are sore after a few minutes, of course, but he doesn’t complain. The quiet company is nice, accompanied by a radio softly playing surprisingly contemporary music; all he gets is the occasional “behind you with a knife” as Angela passes by on quiet feet. And she doesn’t complain when he holds the bowl out with a questioning look.

Admittedly, Jon isn’t quite sure what “light and fluffy” means in regard to butter.

Angela doesn’t complain about his questions, though.

She vanishes after a minute or so in the beginning, though, mug of tea in hand for Sasha, but she doesn’t leave Jon alone long.

She _does_ give his coffee a very judgmental look, though, one that makes him chug the remainder before she steals it and pours it down the drain.

It’s… nice. The baking is nice. Far from what Jon expects from a grandmother, but he likes it.

“Does your hair give you a headache?” Angela asks, after Jon’s beaten the butter to her satisfaction and she’s handed him a faded recipe card and pointed him towards the cupboards with the ingredients.

“Yes,” Jon admits, stirring in sugar and vanilla. “It’s rather heavy.”

“Mm. I had hair like that, before I had children,” she says. “But Sasha’s mother liked pulling on my braid, and it wasn’t worth it.”

“I understand that,” Jon says. “My, ah. My grandmother always said my hair was ridiculous and impractical. I kept it long to prove a point.”

“Well, it’s quite pretty,” Angela says. “The grey makes a lovely pattern in your braid.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you like grey?”

“Are you asking if I like my hair?” Jon asks, frowning at her.

“Don’t look away from your baking while you’re stirring,” Angela advises. “No, I’m asking if you like the color.”

“I don’t see anything wrong with it. Grey and black is practical, after all.”

“Hm.” Out of the corner of his eye, Jon can see Angela frown contemplatively at a pressed flower hanging framed by her window. “Would you like a sweater?”

“Would I _what_?” Jon puts the fork down and looks over at Angela.

“Wool sweaters are like a hug,” Angela says. “And I think that is quite nice.”

“I don’t know how to take care of a wool sweater,” Jon protests.

“It’s simple.” Angela shrugs. “Get back to stirring. Sasha’s probably reading some of my books, but let’s not keep her too bored. If you don’t want one, I’m not going to make you one. But they’re quite comfortable and quite nice.”

“…I wouldn’t complain,” Jon admits, and gets the feeling that Angela smiles at him. He can’t help but feel that this isn’t normal for a grandmother, this kind of sudden fondness and willingness to spend so many hours of labor on a garment for a veritable stranger, but Jon won’t complain. It’s – it’s nice. It’s nice, having someone like him. Well, having someone like him while they know he’s human.

“I’ll measure you once we’re done. Then let’s take a look at my yarn, see if there’s any that speaks to you, alright?”

(The yarn Jon picks out isn’t grey – it’s a gentle blue, somewhat desaturated, and soft. It smells like cloves, and Angela smiles when he picks it up.

“I guessed you might go for that,” she says. “It’s a nice contrast with your eyes, and I think you can pull off pale colors.” She picks up another skein of the same color, holds it up to his face. “Yes, quite nice,” she agrees.

Jon smiles awkwardly, and the smile Angela returns is warm.

It’s not what Jon expects from a grandmother. But he’s not complaining.)

//

“I like _Poirot_ ,” Sasha admits, three episodes in.

“More than _Midsummer Murders_?” Angela asks, shifting her yarn in her lap and putting her needles down to stretch her hands.

“Absolutely,” Sasha says. “Jon?”

“It’s written well,” Jon agrees. “You can solve it before the end of the episode, if you pay attention.”

Sasha frowns at him. “Guess you’re more observant than me,” she says. “But, gran – can I get you to watch _Elementary_?”

Angela sighs. “Is that the Sherlock Holmes one you’ve been trying to get me to watch for years?”

“Absolutely,” Sasha says. “We can get my Amazon account up, and I can show you the first episode. You don’t like it, I’ll suffer through an episode or two of _Midsummer_.”

Angela laughs. “How noble of you,” she says dryly. “Alright.”

Sasha cheers.

“But help me clear a place for my next puzzle while we watch that,” Angela orders.

//

“Come back next Saturday,” Angela orders Jon, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in her skirt. “I’ll need you to try on the sweater before I go much further.”

“She’s making you a _sweater_?” Sasha asks, delighted.

“Yes, she offered, and –”

Sasha grins. “I told you she’d like you,” she says. “First she lets you into the kitchen, then she makes you a sweater; next you’ll be getting socks and blankets. Just wait.” Her grin widens. “Maybe you’ll make Martin jealous, and he’ll take it as a challenge.

“Martin knits?” Jon asks, frowning. “Yes, of course he does…” he shakes his head. “I saw him working on it. It’s quite impressive.”

“He knits?” Angela raises her eyebrows. “Hm. I’ve never met a male knitter. They’re rare.”

“Really?” Sasha asks.

“Mm. Men aren’t always comfortable in female-dominated spaces,” Angela says dryly. “They try to carve out their own spot, and then get offended when women get irritated.”

“I feel like you’re referencing a specific event,” Sasha says.

“Of course not, love.” Angela pats Sasha’s arm. “Don’t be ridiculous. I would never gossip.”

Sasha rolls her eyes. “Of course not,” she says fondly. “It’s not like you go to a little yarn store to chat with the workers about the newest drama in the community.”

Angela shakes her head, waggling a nagging finger at Sasha. “Don’t assume,” she says. “And travel home safe. Jon, are you sure I can’t convince you to take some biscuits home?”

Jon shakes his head, pulling his hat from his coat pocked and putting it back on. “I don’t think I’ll finish them in time.”

Angela sighs. “Alright then.” She hugs Sasha one last time, and smiles again at Jon. “Be sure to come back next Saturday. I have company coming over, but they’ll be gone by noon.”

Jon nods, and follows Sasha out the front door and into the dark.

“Travel safe,” Angela calls, and Sasha flashes her grandmother a quick thumbs up.

They’re several blocks away before Sasha speaks.

“So you were just aggressively adopted,” she says matter-of-factly. “What did you say to her?”

Jon shrugs. “I’m honestly not sure,” he admits. “She just – decided.”

“Clearly.” Sasha shakes her head, smiling. “She made me one, too. Once yours is done, we should both wear ours to work. See how much we can make Martin jealous, yeah?”

//

It’s late when Jon gets home, and the apartment is cold, but he’s still awake. Still reeling from Angela, flailing internally. It’s not – well, compared to his grandmother, Angela’s decision and resulting actions are hardly normal. But they’re pleasant nonetheless. And Jon thinks that they’ll bring a smile to his face, once he’s gotten used to it.

His apartment is quiet and cold. But he's not exactly surprised about that.

And the memories of baking all afternoon bring a smile to Jon's face, and that's enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me throwing commentary on irl drama in fanfic
> 
> also, martin and tim are still wine drunk, have ordered pizza, and are watching animal planet. yes, there is cuddling. yes, the wine is still in mugs.


	36. Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An audio recording is listened to.
> 
> Sasha plans an experiment.
> 
> Jon cooks.
> 
> Martin finds an excuse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: oh yeah i usually post around midnight pst  
> also me: definitely does not post this around midnight pst

Tim’s not sure what time it is when his flat door slams open, but Martin’s still sprawled across his chest and his head is pillowed on a wadded up blanket and his wine mug is empty.

He takes note of all of this before actually looking in the direction of his door, where there could be either a human monster or a carnival monster waiting to brutally murder them both.

Tim groans.

It’s neither.

It’s worse.

It’s _Sasha_.

Sasha closes the door with a bit less theatrics, locking it behind her and sticking her keys in her pocket.

“Up, both of you!” she barks, hanging up her scarf and coat in a clear message that she wasn’t going _anywhere_.

Martin mumbles something, and buries his face further in Tim’s chest.

“No can do, second boss,” Tim says blearily. “I’m working on a side project.”

Sasha glares as she shucks her shoes – _converses_ , not her heavy-duty steel-toed boots capable of crushing bone. “Get up, or I’m dumping a cup of water on you both.”

Tim groans again, and sits up. The world spins a bit, and Martin slides off of Tim’s chest and just burrows into the back couch cushions.

“What time is it?” Tim asks, poking at Martin and only getting mumbled words that may or may not be English.

“Almost five.”

“ _Sash_ ,” Tim groans, flopping backwards.

“Hey, it’s your decision to sleep and drink all weekend!” Sasha snaps. “Get up, I brought food.”

Tim opens his eyes, looks over at her. “…You don’t even have your purse.”

Sasha points at the bag of food sitting on Tim's counter.

Tim doesn't reply. There's not much he can say to explain how he didn't notice _Thai_ food, apart from claiming to still be slightly drunk. Which he is. But he shifts Martin off his chest, standing quickly. Tim's back protests viciously – the dangers of falling asleep on a couch, apparently – but he doesn’t return to the tempting embrace of the blankets. And Martin. Who is, surprisingly, a stubbornly little spoon and a very nice cuddler.

…Tim might still be slightly drunk. His breath probably smells like death and cheap wine. He'll go with that.

“I brought something from gran," Sasha adds, singsong. 

“Biscuits?” Tim asks hopefully.

“No, the awful instant coffee she uses with people she hates.” Sasha reaches into a pocket, and presents a glass spice bottle holding coffee grounds. “I got it yesterday. Now get _moving_ , Tim, I still have to make you and Martin miserable!”

Tim groans. “I never should have given you that key.”

“But you did!” Sasha grabs his kettle, moving around his kitchen with a confidence stemming from a great deal of practice. “Gran let Jon help her bake yesterday. And make lunch.” The kettle goes on the stove, and Sasha hits the dial until it finally agrees to move. “ _And_ she’s making him a sweater.”

“…who’s making a sweater?” Martin asks blearily, sitting up, reddish-brown hair sticking out every which-way, eyes bleary and half his face showing red marks from where he’d spent hours shmushed into Tim’s shirt. “You can’t knit.”

“No, gran’s making Jon a sweater,” Sasha says, wandering over to Tim’s fridge. “Do you still have that sheep cheese you bought by mistake?”

“Ah, yes, the cheese that haunts my dreams.” Tim rolls his eyes, wandering over to watch the kettle. “Top shelf. Take it home, will you? I’m not eating it.”

“My hero.” Sasha grabs a knife from Tim’s drawer, removes the… _pungent_ cheese from Tim’s fridge, and cuts into it with delight.

“That smells gross,” Martin says from the couch, trying in vain to fingercomb his hair into something manageable that doesn’t look like he’s stuck his finger in a power outlet.

“It tastes good, though!” Sasha pops a second bite into her mouth with glee, ignoring Tim’s judgmental look.

“It _really_ doesn’t,” Tim says. “It tastes worse than it smells.”

Martin grimaces as his fingers catch on a snarl, and he gives up.

“How long until you talk about what brought you to my apartment at –” Tim peers at the clock. “—you fucking liar. It’s almost four.”

Sasha waves a hand dismissively. “You can get drunk again after we’re done.” As if on cue, the kettle shrieks, and pain lances through Tim’s head. “Here.”

“I don’t like coffee,” Tim says.

“I don’t care,” Sasha replies, stirring the grounds into a mug and handing it to him. “Martin! You’re going to want to be more sober for this than you are.”

Martin’s expression shifts from bleary to anxious as he stands, pulls a blanket around his shoulders, and pads into the kitchen.

Tim drinks the coffee in one go, chugging it like his life depends on it. Martin stares bleakly into the dark drink, carefully swirling his mug to watch the coffee splash gently against the sides.

“So with your ominous foreshadowing,” Tim says, putting his mug in the sink, “why are you here at fuck off o’clock in the morning?”

“Jon and I went to my gran’s,” Sasha begins.

“Obviously, because you didn’t get this awful contraband when we were there,” Tim cuts in.

“Shut up, Tim. We went to my gran’s, and I watched Jon’s video again.”

Martin looks towards the open bottle of wine on the counter with a contemplative expression.

“And I recorded the audio, and _you two_ are going to listen to it if I have to tie you up.”

“Not without a safeword,” Tim jokes on reflex. “We left the tape there?”

“Apparently. Still in her VCR and everything.” Sasha shrugs. “Drink your coffee, Martin. It’s not fun.”

Martin sighs, but drinks the coffee with a grimace. “You know, I have a coffee maker,” he says.

“ _You_?” Tim asks, incredulous.

“Well, it was my mum’s,” Martin defends. “…It’s in a box in my closet.”

Sasha just laughs at that. But her laugh dies and with it, her smile and mirthful expression, a grim bearing settling around her as she pulls out her phone. “Get ready for this,” she warns, and pulls up the audio recording.

_“Well. I hope this is not a fool’s errand…”_

//

Martin doesn’t look away from the window as the recording ends.

Tim exhales loudly, running a hand over his face. “And I thought the statement was rough,” he tries to joke, but it falls flat.

“Yeah.”

“He –” Tim shakes his head.

“ _Yeah_ ,” Sasha repeats.

“It was harder on him than we thought,” Martin says, drumming his fingers against the side of his mug.

“He needs a hug,” Sasha says.

“He got plenty of those,” Tim replies, shaking his head again. “Lots of those.”

“He got carted around,” Sasha argues. “He didn’t get _hugs_. Look, I’ll go first, and if he loses it, we’ll know.”

Martin sighs. “I don’t – we have more wine, Sasha,” he offers.

Sasha just shakes her head. “Can’t stand it,” she says, a bit of cheer returning to her tone. “Now I’ll just take this cheese home, and drown the sorrows of my last date in bad TV.”

“Need me to rough him up?” Tim offers.

“Already done.” She smiles pleasantly, a smile that shows no teeth and really doesn’t need to.

“Okay, but who’s making Jon a sweater?” Martin asks Sasha, frowning slightly. “You can’t knit.”

“My gran. He’s her new grandson, apparently. Martin, I told you already, before we listened to the recording.” 

For some reason, Martin’s frown deepens.

Well, Tim muses, Martin was half asleep. A bit of forgetfulness is understandable.

//

Angela had sent Jon home with eight different recipes, hand-written on stickynotes shaped like cartoon mushrooms. One was for some kind of biscuit with a truly ridiculous name, another was for something she called “Southern Biscuits” and seemed to look more like a scone recipe than anything else, another was an actual scone recipe, and the rest were for various dishes.

She had also made Jon promise he would make at least one, and talk to her about next weekend.

That is why Jon is staring at three different varieties of potatoes, looking down occasionally at a cartoonish stickynote, trying desperately to deduce what kind of potato he should get.

It calls for three potatoes.

Sasha mentioned multiple times that her grandmother cooked for volume, but Angela had prepared a small amount of spaghetti proportioned for three people, with no food leftover.

Jon closes his eyes, and grabs at random. They’re potatoes. It can’t go that badly, can it?

//

The stew tastes like potatoes and carrots and not a lot else.

Jon gives it an unimpressed look, and swipes another quick taste on his fingertip.

The taste does not miraculously change.

It doesn’t taste like the soup Martin made, or even look vaguely similar – this is thick and cloudy, since he appears to have overcooked the potatoes. But undercooked potatoes have a chance of toxicity, one that would thoroughly ruin his day. Not as toxic as the sprouts or the skins, but it’s better to overcook and dissolve potatoes than end up in the hospital.

His grandmother must have mentioned that, in an uncharacteristic moment of chattiness, an odd moment of bonding that probably lasted one sentence and not a moment longer.

Jon feels a bit like his grandmother as he grabs from his spice cabinet, tossing in a pinch of this and a hefty spoonful of that, on and on until it tastes like something his grandmother would call “adequate” and serve.

He adds a hefty splash of tabasco sauce, calls it “good” and serves it. Angela’s recipe calls for a dinner roll (and there is a recipe for dinner rolls scrawled on the back of the stickynote with the recipe for the stew), but Jon isn’t quite brave enough to attempt any kind of bread.

His landlord would not be impressed if Jon set something on fire in search of culinary experience.

…Maybe Angela would be willing to make those with Jon, when he visits next? He could probably ply her with some kind of nice tea, judging by her collection.

If Martin will look Jon in the eye, he’ll ask Martin about tea on Monday, Jon decides.

There’s a very small chance that Martin actually will do so, and an even smaller one he’ll tolerate a question about tea, but Jon can hope.

And if not, the internet is a good resource.

//

“Oh look, I have pictures of a bad decision,” Tim announces, pausing with an old wine bottle in hand on his way to the bag he and Martin are using to collect said bottles.

“What’s Jon doing?” Martin asks, carefully placing a bottle of his own in the bag.

“He’s wrapped in a blanket and standing next to my fridge.”

Martin looks at Tim for a long moment. “…Can I see it?”

Tim laughs, and hands his phone over.

Jon is indeed wrapped in a blanket, a large red microfiber thing that thoroughly swamps him, fingertips barely visible where he’s clutching the blanket. His braid is mussed, there’s the imprint of a pillow on the side of his face, and his expression is half-asleep and relaxed as he looks at the camera.

“That’s unfair,” Martin says, returning to his cleaning.

“Mortification is warring by how fucking adorable it is,” Tim agrees. “Sending it to Sasha.”

Tim’s phone buzzes barely a minute later.

“She says ‘rude,’” Tim announces, and Martin huffs a small laugh. “Look, let’s just compile all of our pictures from when we thought he was a cat, send the files to Sasha, and if we can ever look him in the eye again without turning red, she can give the pictures back,” Tim suggests.

Martin just shrugs. “Are there any bottles left?”

“Probably, but I’ll find them later. Your place next?”

Martin groans.

“Look, we’ll stop by the store, get some coffee, get your coffee maker from the closet, and go on a cleaning spree fueled by the most disgusting drink I’ve ever had the misfortune of drinking. No way this’ll go wrong.” Tim smiles cheerfully. “We have to face him and Sasha’s experiment tomorrow, not to mention Rosie’s questions, so let’s make ourselves sleep deprived enough that we won’t remember any of tomorrow when we wake up on Tuesday.”

Martin can’t find any fault with that. Sure, he’d hoped to call his mum today, but… he feels like the kind of awful son she’d always made him out to be, but an excuse not to call her is one that Martin will take.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sasha definitely learned how to scare the shit out of people from angela, and how to rough up people who harass her from her other grandmother
> 
> coming up next: Jon's Normal :)


	37. Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon is hungry.
> 
> Sasha gives a hug.
> 
> Tim is awkward.
> 
> Martin is late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me being salty about highly congested areas while having low mobility. if i have a fucking cane then i can't speedwalk, _seattle_

Jon feels… jittery. Hungry. Shaky. Like he’s forgotten to eat for days, working on fumes and cigarette smoking as he oft did during uni, even when Georgie lectured him for flirting with lung cancer.

His hands are shaking as he dresses and braids his hair – _tries_ to braid his hair, that is. Three passes in and it’s already a mess, one that Jon gives up on lest he start crying over it.

He’s hungry, but the sandwich he forces down doesn’t help. He’s just. Hungry. It doesn’t make sense.

But it’s not like Jon can use “weirdly hungry and can’t fix it” as an excuse to get out of going to work. Not when there’s so much to be done, so many statements to slog through recording from the past month. (Eight. There are eight. Jon can’t remember when he counted, though.)

So he leaves for work early, limps to the station and stands awkwardly throughout the ride as his feet throb. Blisters don’t heal in a week, Jon reminds himself. Or eighteen days. They’re just… inconvenient.

//

Jon’s already in the Archives when Sasha arrives, which she can’t bring herself to be surprised about. Considering he didn’t answer her text (sent at the reasonable hour of six, thank you), and also considering it’s _Jon_.

But he’s sitting in front of the armchair, files spread out in front of him, one pen holding his hair back in a messy bun and one in hand as he takes notes. Not sequestered away in his office, only to come out to request one bit of follow up or another before vanishing.

He’s also barefoot, and wearing clothes rather reminiscent of how he’d been dressed for the past month.

“Morning,” Sasha says cheerfully.

Jon makes a vague noise in response, turning a page.

“Any particularly spooky work you have assigned to us yet?” Sasha asks, not exactly expecting a response.

“Call Marianne Wight about her father’s alma mater,” Jon says without looking up. “And look into that college, if possible. I want to see whether or not his comment about dates of graduation is correct, as they appear to be inconsistent with the events mentioned.”

Sasha raises her eyebrows. “Which events?”

“The French election,” Jon says, finally looking up at her. He looks better than Saturday, though there’s still a tiredness etched deep into him, and Sasha’s willing to swear that there’s a great deal more grey in his hair. “Of course, it could be a case of misremembering, but I’d like to double check.”

Sasha shrugs, and ambles towards the breakroom in search of tea. “Not using your office?” she asks.

Jon is still in her peripheral vision. She can see him tense at her question.

“No, I – I was making tea,” Jon says slowly. “I understand – I – I see your point. Thank you. My desk would be better suited for this than the floor. Just give me a moment, and I’ll – I’ll gather these up. You’re right, of course.”

“I’m not saying you have to leave,” Sasha says immediately. “Just asking. Sitting on the floor all day can’t be comfortable.”

“It’s not,” Jon agrees. He’s already stacking papers, sticking his working pen into his bun, sorting the files and struggling to his feet. “Thank you. I’ve not exactly – well. Not been using my office.”

“Here.” Sasha holds a hand out. “Still having trouble with your feet?”

“Ah, yes.” Jon looks down at his stack of files, looks up at Sasha. There’s an awkward sadness in his face, disappointment that Sasha knows isn’t directed at her. “I’ll need to record a statement today, anyway. Might as well try and work through the backlog.” But he accepts Sasha’s help, stumbling to his feet with a wince.

“How long do blisters usually take to heal?” Sasha asks, wrapping an arm around Jon’s waist to better support him. He goes stiff for just a moment, before relaxing into her grip. This close, he looks drawn and pale.

“It can take two weeks if there’s constant agitation.” Jon blinks slowly, eyelashes fluttering, before glancing at Sasha from the corner of his eye.

“I think it’s been more than two weeks.”

“Eighteen days,” Jon corrects, without missing a beat.

Sasha doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tell him to go to a doctor or get help. Doesn't nag him about either using his grandmother's cane or getting crutches. She just takes most of Jon’s weight and helps him limp to his office so he can sequester himself away behind door and desk. She’s not forcing things on him, however badly he may misread her words.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Sasha says, once Jon’s managed to get into his desk chair.

He doesn’t look up from where he’s spreading his files out, sorting things according to some odd pattern only he knows.

“Thank you.” Jon doesn’t look up.

Sasha doesn’t walk away.

No. She walks behind him, loosely draping her arms around him and giving him a gentle hug from behind.

He’d gone tense, when Sasha first touched him to help him to his office. He goes tense now. But like before, he relaxed into the touch.

“…Thank you,” Jon repeats, and Sasha just smiles.

//

“…statement ends.”

Jon looks at the tape recorder blankly, mind far away as he lists the completed follow up work.

He doesn’t feel hungry anymore. He feels awake, alert, _sated_. And slightly scared.

//

“I was right, and you owe me coffee,” Sasha declares, the moment Tim walks in. He shrugs as he heads towards his desk.

“I think I always owe you some kind of caffeine, but why now?”

“Jon still needs hugs.”

“Oh.” Tim sighs. “Just because he likes hugs from you –”

Sasha throws a pen at Tim, hitting him squarely on the forehead. “ _Hugs_ , Tim. Not just mine.”

Tim stares. “Did _Elias_ hug him?”

“Tim.” Sasha shakes her head. “Tim. Just give him a damn hug, okay? You’ll see what I mean.”

Tim looks far from convinced. But that’s his problem, one that Sasha will continue harping on until he gets his own proof.

“And get a look at him,” Sasha adds.

“ _Why_?”

“You’ll see.” Sasha grins at Tim, grins as he rolls his eyes, grins as he walks off in search of tea in exaggerated disgust.

//

The door to Jon’s office is wide open, held such with the aid of a box of presumably blank cassette tapes. And Jon’s sitting at his desk. As Jon usually would, considering it’s his desk, and he’s probably still too injured to wander the stacks.

But Tim’s still a bit surprised to see Jon sitting there, hair held in a messy bun with a pen and hope, wearing a jumper big enough to probably fit Martin.

“Don’t think Elias would be happy to see you in that,” Tim says, for wont of anything better to start the conversation with.

Jon looks up slowly, eyebrows raised, face expectant. Probably expecting more intelligent conversation than complaining about Elias’ love of the dress code. Or an apology for the last month.

“I – well.” Jon looks down at his jumper, picks at the cuff of one sleeve. “I thought we – that is, I thought the archival staff was going to stage a revolt against the dress code? Or should I – is that exclusive to the, ah. The color of socks?”

Tim… Tim has nothing to say to that. He’s not surprised that Jon overheard those conversations, considering how Jon had practically turned the armchair into his office, but still. And not only to remember that, but to play along with something admittedly juvenile? That’s. That’s a bit new.

“Tim?” Jon asks, voice just this side of hesitant. “Was I wrong? I’m afraid socks and – and shoes are rather. Well. Painful. At the moment.”

That restarts Tim’s mouth. “Yeah, blisters and spooky hallways?” Maybe Tim’s mouth should have remained stalled, because Jon starts to blanch. “Yeah! Yeah. Yeah, general rebellion will work, I think. Can’t have you popping blisters or something in the course of spiting Elias, right?”

Jon’s smile is rather pained, but it’s a smile nonetheless. One that doesn’t reach his eyes. Frankly, he looks slightly like Tim’s an annoying missionary who won’t go away without leaving an excessive amount of pamphlets or a book with Jon, but who Jon is listening to because said missionary is very young and very earnest and incredibly out of their depth. Which may or may not be an expression Tim’s had before.

Tim’s staring, admittedly. Staring as Jon’s expressions shift openly, from hesitant to awkward to anxious before circling right back around to hesitant.

He’s an open book now.

Tim might have preferred it when Jon was untouchable and unreadable, because at least then there wasn’t this _awkwardness_.

“Ah.” Jon clears his throat, raises his eyebrows.

His eyes are still bright, Tim notes absently. Not eyesore bright, but bright.

“Tim, is that all?” Jon asks, and Tim blinks.

Ah, yes. Nothing like leaning against the doorframe of your boss’ office and staring at him like he’s in a zoo to make up for the last month.

“Yeah,” Tim says. Sasha’s going to be disappointed, but to be fair, all she said was to take a look at Jon. “Yeah, that’s it.”

“Of course. If you don’t mind, I’d like you to look into Marianne Wight’s birth father?”

“Yeah, yeah. ‘Course.” Tim shoves off the doorway, and is half through turning to leave when Jon speaks again.

“And, if you wouldn’t mind emailing me how much I owe you for the last month?”

Tim doesn’t answer that.

Because doing the math about how much Jon would conceivably owe him would require examining the past month in depth, and he’s too sober for that.

//

Martin is late.

Very late.

Jon does his best not to worry – he hasn’t gotten any text or email or call from Martin, so Martin just overslept, stayed up too late yesterday watching Netflix and slept through his alarms. (Though Jon can’t help but feel that, even had something happened, Martin wouldn’t have texted him. Maybe he would have contacted Sasha, or Tim, but Jon can’t help but feel that Martin would not have texted him. Understandable though that may be.)

But Jon has more work for Sasha and Tim, work that they can get to tomorrow but he’d like to make them aware of nonetheless. And he doesn’t feel like shouting to get their attention.

So Jon stands, papers in hand, and limps out of his office. His grandmother’s cane is too tall for him, too tall to really do any kind of help, so it’s back at his flat. Using a cane doesn’t help any people on the train understand that he can’t move any faster even if he wanted to.

Jon thinks he can hear Elias’ voice, as he draws closer to where his assistants are gathered, calm and condescending.

And Jon discovers that he _can_ hear Elias, though the words are muffled by the door to the Archives. What’s going on, who Elias is berating, Jon can’t say, and he finds himself paralyzed in the hallway, standing just shy of entering Sasha and Tim’s line of sight.

The door opens. Because that is what doors do. And Martin walks into the Archives, looking harried and haggard and miserable as can be.

Neither Tim nor Sasha tease, gently ribbing Martin about his tardiness. And Jon’s glad for it – he doesn’t exactly want to see Martin actually burst into tears. He’s seen that once, and would very much like to never see it again. (Just as much as he’d like to give Martin’s mother a talking-to, though Jon knows that doing so would be thoroughly overstepping Martin’s boundaries in a truly spectacular manner.)

Martin doesn’t look up from the floor as he heads towards his desk, eyes glued on his old and slightly battered work shoes. He just radiates _misery_ , shoulders hunched and head bowed and steps slow and plodding.

Jon would like to help. He’d like to approach and pat Martin’s arm, perhaps give him the same kind of hug that Sasha gave Jon this morning, settle Martin at his desk and make him a cup of tea.

That’s what Jon would like to do.

He doesn’t, however.

Martin is clearly miserable. He doesn’t need his boundaries impinged upon again.

So Jon turns, and quietly limps back to his office. He can email Sasha about the follow up he’d like her to do next.

(Martin had seen Jon. He’s more observant than people like to give him credit for, after all. Have to be, to be a good liar. How can you pull someone else’s strings if you can’t tell if it’s working?

So maybe he sees Jon, dressed the same as he’d been for the past month, dressed of his own volition in clothes several sizes too big, barefoot, hair down. Maybe Martin sees Jon’s expression, sees the reluctance in Jon’s retreat. It’s understandable, though. Of course it is. Why would Jon want to be in the same room?)

(Martin does give Jon a once-over, though. Perhaps… seventy centimeters, around the chest? Sixty five? Can’t be more than twenty or twenty five around the arms, though. Martin

will have to do some math, once he finds gauge.)

//

“Jon, we’re going out tonight –”

Jon groans. “Sasha, if I have dumplings one more time this week, I will be sick,” he says, burying his head in his hands.

“Well, fine then.” Sasha makes a face at Jon, putting a hand on her hip. “Just for that, I’m not giving you a hair tie.”

“Sasha, I didn’t _ask_ –”

“Anyway, we’re not going out for dumplings. We’re going out for Italian, because I’m relatively certain they’re both still too drunk to be trusted around a stove.”

“You just want an excuse,” Jon accuses, looking up at her. But his gaze softens, expression turning resigned. “You’ve already invited them, Sasha. I’m not going to impinge.”

“Jon, I _promise_ you’re not impinging,” Sasha says, frowning at him. “It’ll be awkward for a bit. But I promise you’re not impinging.”

Still, Jon shakes his head. Sasha – well, they’re beginning to be friends, Jon thinks. And friends often lie to make each other feel better. Little white lies. “Go have fun,” he orders. “I’m hoping to get some rest. Stay off my feet. You know.”

Sasha looks at him a moment longer, expression nigh scrutinizing. But she sighs. “I’ll bring you some garlic bread tomorrow,” she promises, and that’s that. She leaves. Like Jon asked.

He doesn’t leave immediately, of course, though he’d told the truth about wanting to get some rest. And it’s not like he’s planning to stay in the Archives tonight, as tempting as the prospect of getting more work done is – _and_ of getting to skip the commute and general irritation of those around him as he limps around.

His heated blanket is in the Archives. But his mountain of blankets is back at his flat. So Jon will be going home tonight. Maybe he’ll bring the heated blanket with him.

//

John Mulaney, Jon discovers, has multiple specials on Netflix. He’s already seen one, it’s not like he has any great desire to watch the next. But the noise is comforting. And there’s a specific timbre to the man’s voice that Jon can’t help but smile at.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> statement withdrawal :) no way elias is going to use this to further manipulate jon :) 
> 
> also next chapter should be up friday, probably around 1am pst, because i am a college student and sleep schedules are a lie. and i'm gonna start posting chapter announcements on my tumblr, url with the relevant tag here https://solitaaaaaairrrre.tumblr.com/tagged/scritches-liveblog


	38. Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rosie appears. 
> 
> Martin plots. 
> 
> A door may have changed colors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> exactly two (2) people said they were interested in the knitting parts, so martin's gonna continue Plotting the sweater in full view of the narration. this is what happens when you encourage me.  
> also! also also also!  
> https://solitaaaaaairrrre.tumblr.com/post/618666368971194368/agent-8449-solitaaaaaairrrre-parity-lemon  
> https://solitaaaaaairrrre.tumblr.com/post/618480004840521728/cucumberkale-fanart-of  
> https://solitaaaaaairrrre.tumblr.com/post/618137073391697920/thisismyideaofhumor-fanart-of-scritches-for-the  
> i. uh. may have forgotten to link things last chapter. but seriously!!! look!!! l o o k a t t h e m!!! i have No Words.

Rosie, apparently, is in early.

Very early.

Early enough that she’s already sitting at the front desk, book propped open in front of her, glasses perched on her nose and mascara already starting to flake onto the skin below her eyes.

Jon is surprised, to say the least. She’s composed, degrading make up notwithstanding; she glances up at him with a smile, a genuine thing that makes the crows feet by her eyes appear in full force.

“Good morning,” she says, voice cheerful but quiet. “Glad to see you again.”

Jon smiles awkwardly, leaning against the wall to pull off his shoes without putting too much pressure on his feet.

“Oh, are you injured?” Rosie raises her eyebrows, putting a scrap of paper in her book and putting said book down. “What happened?”

“Ah.” Jon looks down at his shoes. “I forgot my shoes, and ended up going on a rather long walk.”

Rosie winces sympathetically. “Poor thing,” she says. “How bad are they?”

Again, Jon looks down. They aren’t _infected_ , but…

“Unpleasant,” he admits.

“Both feet?”

At Jon’s nod, Rosie winces again. “I’m sorry about that. Have you seen a doctor? How long has it been?”

“Nearly three weeks,” Jon says. “Nineteen days.”

“You probably ought to see someone about that,” Rosie says. “Especially if they last much longer.”

“Well, I haven’t been able to stay off my feet as much as I would have liked,” Jon sighs, and pulling his socks off.

The stairs down to the Archives are cold and unpleasant to take at the best of times. The stairs down to the Archives, at the moment, are _incredibly_ unpleasant to take.

“Want help downstairs?”

Jon looks at Rosie for a moment. She’s an older woman, already suffering from arthritic hands, with a bad back from a nasty fall when she was younger. But she’s strong enough, considering her consistent physical therapy to assist with her back, prevent it from getting worse, prevent her from needing more than a back brace.

“I – I would not complain,” Jon says slowly.

Rosie doesn’t hesitate. “Don’t worry,” she says as she makes her way around the desk. “You don’t weigh enough to be any trouble. Now come on, let me help.”

She’s a little shorter than him, even with her shoes, Jon notes. And she’s comfortable wrapping her arm around his waist and his arm around her shoulders, compensating for his awkward rigidity, confident in helping him in a way that doesn’t make Jon feel like he’s about to go tumbling down the stairs and break his neck. Which is more than Jon could say about taking the stairs on his own.

Rosie really ought to be paid more, Jon thinks. Or at the very least, get a better bonus than she does. But no, Elias is… a product of his time, and she’s just a secretary. Despite the fact that the Institute would probably come to a screeching halt should she quit. 

//

Martin’s notebook is usually filled with poetry – poetry that even he can admit is not the highest quality, but poetry that he enjoys writing. He’ll write words that sound funny in his mouth, write them again and again until he gets the feel for them, understands the meaning, understands how they’d fit in a sentence.

The most recent pages, however, are full of math. Martin can’t guess how long Jon’s arms are, but that’s simple enough to fix should he make them too long.

DK weight yarn, Martin thinks. He has… more than a few skeins of a nice brown, a shade that won’t clash with Jon’s now brightly colored eyes. A nice rich brown, hefty and soft. Machine washable, too. Though, maybe Martin should go with the worsted grey, which is light enough to show the cables better? The brown _feels_ better, though, feels like it would better match with the honeycomb cables Martin has doodled in the margins of his notebook.

But the cables might not show up in low light.

Martin sighs heavily, ignores the judgmental look he gets from the woman standing next to him, and flicks to the next page.

Cables on the sleeves, too? Cables pull the material in, make it a bit tighter, which would account for Jon’s thin arms. Unless it would be better to follow the general fit of the sweatshirt Jon wore yesterday, drop sleeves and oversized in both the arms and the body?

…Or maybe Martin should use some of his own jumpers as a reference, considering how Jon had worn them? Considering how Jon seems to have taken the fit and style of what he’d had to wear over the past month, taken it and made it his own? Made it his own in a way that seems directly intended to irritate Elias?

That’s a thought. Of course, Martin would need to fully chart out the cables before he makes a decision on the yoke, on the sleeves, on the construction. (He refuses to work it flat. He’s not doing that much seaming for _anyone_.)

//

“Okay. Revolt.” Tim spins slowly in his chair, on hold with some college or another. Martin has his knitting in hand, needles flashing at an alarming speed. Sasha deigns to take her earbuds out at Tim’s words, turning away from her work.

(Martin has no work. He has no idea what he’s supposed to do. Last month, he would have made a list, wrangled Jon into his _lap_ , and demanded assistance. Right now, he’s taking a break from hauling boxes full of documents to and fro.)

“Sasha,” Tim continues, tapping a pen against his knee, “any luck in getting a work appropriate yet short skirt?”

“Coming in the mail next week,” Sasha says. “Black skirt. I’m not looking like a _schoolgirl_.”

Tim winces. “That the only option in store?”

“Yeah.”

Tim sighs. “That’s bullshit. Anyway. Martin, socks?”

“It’s not like I’ve thrown those away,” Martin says. “Those took me days, I’m not going to throw them out unless I have to.”

“Good enough.”

“Haven’t we roped Jon in, too?” Sasha asks.

Martin stares intently at his knitting.

Tim doesn’t react.

“Look, you saw his outfit yesterday – well, Tim did.” Sasha takes a breath to continue, but Martin cuts her off.

“No, I saw him too. He’s…”

“Utterly adorable. Also designed to irritate Elias.” Sasha raises her eyebrows at Tim and Martin. “Did you actually give him a hug, Tim?”

Tim doesn’t say anything. Martin stares at his knitting. Sasha gives up on the emotional maturity of _either_ of them.

“Give him a damn hug, he needs affection,” Sasha orders Tim. “Go. You’re on hold.”

Tim makes a face. “I can’t just walk away from my _work_ , Sash! He’ll have an aneurysm once he figures out!”

“Then give me the –”

“Hi!” Tim’s face shifts in a split second, voice turning cheerful and pleasant. “Yes, thank you so much for looking into that for me…”

Sasha turns to Martin.

Martin stares at his knitting.

“Martin…”

Martin stares at his knitting.

Stares intently enough that he doesn’t notice Sasha stand, amble over to his desk. Doesn’t notice until she puts a hand on his yarn – or, goes to put a hand on his yarn, and gets her hand quickly batted away for the effort.

“That’s rude,” Martin mumbles. “Don’t touch my yarn unless your hands are clean.”

“My hands _are_ clean,” Sasha retorts. “Look, go talk to him. Bring him a cup of tea or something.”

Martin, finally, looks up from his knitting. He’s reluctant, slow in his movement, but Sasha doesn’t move.

“Martin,” she says quietly, “he doesn’t bite. Just go bring him tea and give him a hug, okay?”

//

Martin had never managed to get Jon’s tea _just_ right. Jon would drink it, of course, but there would always be a small grimace on his face at the first sip.

So Martin tries to make up for it. Black tea with sugar, no milk, and one of the biscuits he made the other day.

Martin does not dawdle. He doesn’t find meaningless things to do, tiny imaginary messes to tidy, tiny bits of dust to wipe down.

…He absolutely does, though. Because Jon was intimidating at the best of times, and Martin can vividly remember the shriek when he’d first picked Jon up, the glares of displeasure when Martin insisted on dragging him to bed, and the slow and reluctant acceptance on Jon’s part of cuddles and bedsharing.

And _nose kisses_.

Which is to say, Martin feels justified in dawdling. Because doing otherwise means facing Jon, and he doubts that the biscuits are good enough to completely smooth things over.

At least he didn’t grope Jon. That’s one thing he has on Tim.

But there’s not enough things to “tidy” in the break room. And the tea is getting cold.

So Martin steels himself the best he can, gathers tea and biscuit in hand, and goes to face Jon.

//

The door to Jon’s office is open. Wide open. And there are papers spread all over his desk, and his hair is in a neat braid handing over one shoulder and probably coming close to pooling slightly in Jon’s lap, and he is utterly _drowning_ in a black cardigan.

He doesn’t notice Martin, which is at least one thing that’s familiar. One thing. The only thing.

Also, Jon’s shoes are sitting just inside the doorway, socks neatly folded and tucked inside one shoe, which is a far cry from what Jon would usually have done.

Martin decides against contemplating the ridiculousness of comparing things to how they were in January, and knocks quietly on the door.

Jon’s head snaps up, though, bright eyes pinning Martin in place. Bright eyes with tentative curiosity, and lovely eyelashes that Martin can swear he can see from the doorway.

(He can’t see Jon’s eyelashes from the doorway. He just vividly remembers how they look. He has a month’s worth of memories to draw on.)

“Tea?” Martin says awkwardly, gesturing with the mug.

“…Yes,” Jon says after a moment. “Yes, thank you. You can just –” he looks over his desk. “Ah. One moment.”

Martin ventures cautiously into the office as Jon tries to shuffle papers together to make some kind of room on his desk, eyes flitting from page to page to Martin and back to the pages again. 

“Here, can I help?” Martin asks, balancing the mug in one tiny, relatively clear spot, occupied only by a blank index card.

“No, thank you, I –” Jon sighs, and looks up. “Thank you, Martin. I – I appreciate the tea. I’m afraid I’ve rather. Well, I’ve most definitely missed it. Your tea, that is.” Jon gives up, then, on making the stacks make any kind of sense, just shoves the papers to the side into a jumble that Martin thinks he’ll probably regret later.

Last month, Jon would have snarled at him for daring to bring a _biscuit_ which will _crumble_ and get _all over everything_. But now he just smiles tentatively at Martin, shoves the papers further to the side, and accepts both tea and biscuit.

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon says quietly, taking a small sip of the tea.

There’s no grimace, this time. Jon just smiles, hesitant and small. A little _am-I-doing-this-right_ smile, an _is-this-okay_ smile. (The answer to both, Martin thinks, is a resounding _yes_.)

Martin lingers for a moment, just looking at Jon. His estimations were close, he thinks – maybe he’d been a bit generous, actually. But a little bit more room won’t hurt.

He’s staring, Martin supposes. But Jon doesn’t look up from the tea, doesn’t look up from where he pinches a small bite off of the biscuit.

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon repeats, talking mostly to the papers on his desk and the tea. Not in a dismissive way, as Martin’s used to. Just. Shy. That’s all.

…Martin’s going to disappoint Sasha. “Yeah, no problem,” he says, and retreats.

//

The light is on in Jon’s flat.

He turned the light off. He knows that for a fact. He does not leave the light on. That just adds to his bill, which he doesn’t need.

The light is on, but there is nobody in the flat.

Jon knows, because he is admittedly an idiot with little sense of self-preservation, and ventured into the flat.

There is nobody there. Nobody besides Jon. Though he could’ve sworn that the door to the closet changed colors, when he looked at it a second time.

…He stills texts Sasha.

//

“Okay, I didn’t bring dumplings, but…” Sasha drops her bag by the couch. “I don’t have anything to add. No dumplings, sorry.”

Jon sits, a bit awkward and a bit stiff. It’s been a while since he’s had company. “I don’t mind. It’s short notice,” he admits.

“Nothing out of place? Nothing missing?” Sasha presses.

“No. Just every light on,” Jon says. “Nothing was as much as moved, I’m certain.”

“And you just walked into the flat.”

“…I never said I make good decisions.”

Sasha laughs. “That’s one way to put it,” she says dryly. “Do you have any spare blankets? I’m not going to fall asleep with only a jumper for warmth.”

“Oh, of course.” Jon stands reluctantly, limps away.

His feet are bandaged, Sasha thinks. Hopefully bandaged, under the thick socks he’s wearing. Otherwise they’re horrifically swollen and she’ll be dragging him to A&E, protestations be damned.

Jon returns with a mound of blankets in his arms, a mound of unfolded blankets that were probably pulled directly from a laundry basket, if Sasha had to guess. Multiple throw blankets, and a heated blanket on top of that.

“How many blankets do you have?” Sasha asks, more than a bit teasing, as Jon drops the blankets onto the couch and tries his best to lay them out without moving more than absolutely necessary.

“Ah. Enough?” Jon glances at her out of the corner of his eye, smiling awkwardly. “I – well. Thank you for coming over.”

“Yeah, of course.” Sasha shrugs. “Gran would skin me alive if I left you alone.” She sits, pulls the blankets over her lap, raises an eyebrow at Jon. “So, are you going to bed _now_ , or can I convince you to suffer through Institute gossip?”

Jon blinks slowly at her.

“Vivian texted me,” Sasha explains. “There’s quite a bit going on in Research, apparently.”

Slowly, Jon sits. Sasha bites back a grin.

“So, remember Boris?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> elias: why do i need to pay rosie better, she's just a secretary  
> jon: how are you so fucking stupid. elias. elias please. the institute would _fall_ if it weren't for rosie. 
> 
> the real way s5 should be averted -- rosie quits. or rosie goes "of course" at whatever elias asks, and then promptly Does Not Do That. singlehandedly saves the world.
> 
> 05/23 -- edited to change "nearly two weeks" to "nearly three weeks" in the first scene with rosie


	39. Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim talks.
> 
> Someone says goodnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for a conversation about groping. as always, summary of the chapter in the end notes
> 
> me: i'm not gonna do a daily play-by-play  
> me: absolutely continues with a daily play-by-play

Jon slept on the floor next to the couch, of course.

Call him paranoid, which Sasha did, but something about the paint on his closet door unnerves him.

//

Brown yarn, Martin decides. The cables will wait. He’ll put a nice motif down the sleeves – not cables. Something else. Colorwork? No. Honeycomb brioche, Martin thinks. Give it a nice density. And Jon doesn’t have a cat, Martin thinks, so there’s no danger of the honeycomb brioche getting caught in claws. Maybe he ought to break out some of the stitch dictionaries he has first, see if there’s anything that particularly catches his eye.

Martin heaves a sigh, tucking his pen and notebook into his bag as his stop comes up – and he’s pretty certain that the woman who gives him a judgmental look is the same one as yesterday.

//

“Go take him tea or I will hide your spare needle,” Sasha threatens, pointing a red permanent marker at Martin.

Martin turns as red as the marker. “It’s called a working needle!” he snaps – but he stands. Knitting in hand, but stands nonetheless.

“How’s the sock coming along?” Tim asks as Martin walks past his desk, knitting clutched protectively to his chest.

“Heel turn,” Martin says, tone irritated.

“…Is that at me, or the heel turn?” Sasha asks, once Martin has vanished from sight.

“Honestly, fifty-fifty.”

//

Jon does not look up when Martin knocks on the door to his office bearing tea and biscuit.

He knows it’s Martin, of course – he’s spent a month learning footsteps, and he knows how Martin walks. He knows how Martin walks when carrying a cup, and he can smell the biscuit. Chocolate chip, not one of Angela’s recipes. Angela’s recipe uses chunks taken directly from a bar of baking chocolate, when she makes it.

Jon does not look up, though he makes a vague noise of assent at Martin.

“Tea,” Martin says, rather unnecessarily, considering Jon can smell the tea by now. “I thought – maybe chamomile, today? Not trying to say you’re grumpy, or you –”

Jon glances up, blinking slowly at Martin. (It ­­ _is_ chocolate chip.)

Martin rallies. “Chamomile, bit of milk,” he says. “No sugar. I don’t like sugar in chamomile, you know?”

Jon blinks again, slowly. “Thank you, Martin,” he says quietly, reaching out to take the tea and biscuit. There’s – well, it’s an unnecessary movement. Jon had cleared a space on his desk, the perfect size to hold a mug of tea. And gotten a coaster.

But Jon reaches out for the tea nonetheless, and Martin hands over the mug, putting the biscuit on the clear spot.

Jon takes a sip. It’s not his favorite – his favorite was a blend that his grandmother had that he’s never been able to find again – but it’s good.

His opinion is probably biased, considering who made said tea.

“Is it – is it good?” Martin asks after a moment, after Jon’s had a few sips.

The smile Jon gives is small and slow and hesitant. “Yes. Thank you, Martin. It’s good.”

And Martin leaves. He nods, of course, mutters something about getting back to work – has Jon emailed Sasha about helping Martin, yet? He can’t remember – and leaves. And Jon is left alone with his tea and biscuit and papers.

//

“How much does he glare at you?” Tim asks idly, attention fixed on his phone as he scrolls mindlessly through Twitter. He’s not actually _reading_ any of the tweets he scrolls through, just vaguely processing the images and little else.

Martin shifts awkwardly, clasping his mug between both hands and frowning down at his half-drunk, mostly cold tea. “He, uh. He doesn’t? He mostly just looks. Sad. I guess.”

Tim frowns at his phone.

“Why?”

Tim doesn’t answer. No, he just stands, stands with the air of somebody walking to their own execution, and heads for Jon’s office.

He had nearly killed Jon in Artefact Storage. Might as well clear the air about _that_.

//

The door is open. Quite literally, the door is open. Jon still has it propped open, and is sitting in clear view of the desk, mug of tea within grasp and more papers than Tim can count spread over the available surface.

It looks… definitely not _cozy_ , since they’re in a basement, but Jon’s swamped with a dark, rust orange cardigan, and Tim swears he can see a band shirt on underneath.

Tim steels himself.

He wishes that that’s an overstatement, but it isn’t.

“Tim, is everything alright?” Jon asks, not looking up. Tim startles, hand falling from where he was about to knock on the door. He – he hadn’t been _that_ loud, had he?

“Yeah – yeah, boss, just wanted to talk to you.”

Jon tenses, and Tim wonders briefly why he’d gone with one of the most dread-inducing starters he had at his disposal.

“So, about last month.” Tim takes a deep breath, and looks Jon over. “You… you doing okay?”

“I’m fine,” Jon says quietly, in a tone that could not have been less convincing if he tried.

“Uh-huh.” But Tim doesn’t fight it. He has a specific reason to be here, nervous enough to put Martin to shame and make drinking on the job look very appealing. “How’s, uh. How’s your head? Your neck?”

This makes Jon look up, brows furrowed in confusion. “My – what? Tim, what are you talking about?”

“Well, you remember in Artefact Storage?”

Jon blinks slowly. Once, twice. “…Yes?”

“When I nearly broke your neck?”

Understanding dawns on Jon’s face. “Oh.”

“Yeah. Just wanted to, you know, clear the air on that, I suppose.” Tim shrugs. “So. Sorry about that. And your ankle, I guess? Is that okay?”

“Tim, it’s just my feet that are still injured,” Jon says quietly. “Blisters. The rest of me is fine.”

“Well, I kinda put you in a coma for two days, which is something else you should probably get checked out,” Tim points out.

“Tim, please.” Jon sighs, and then gestures at the other chair. “Please. I’d rather – I’d. Well, I’d like it if you’d sit? Please?”

Tim obeys. There’s not exactly any way he can shrug it off, and Jon honestly looks small enough, _fragile_ enough that Tim isn’t going to blow him off.

Getting closer does not help. Jon’s never been broad, but he’d had a certain kind of presence before. Now he just seems small and quiet, like Martin on his worst days. Longer hair, darker skin, smaller build, but the manner is the same. He just seems _lonely_ , Tim realizes.

…And Tim’s been staring. Staring long enough that Jon is fidgeting under his gaze.

“Tim?” Jon ventures quietly. “Tim, if you – I’d like to say, you did nothing wrong,” he says.

Tim’s eyebrows shoot up, and he opens his mouth to speak, but Jon holds up a hand. It’s a mockery of how imperiously Jon would shut someone up before, but it’s enough to make Tim shut his mouth.

“You acted how somebody would with a cat,” Jon continues. “It is not a situation that one should judge themselves by. While I’d argue that you should never have an _actual_ cat, you had the best intentions, and I can’t fault you for anything.”

“Yeah, you’re forgetting the part where I nearly broke your neck,” Tim says dryly, leaning back in his chair.

“I promise, there’s nothing lasting about that,” Jon assures. “No lasting pain, and I’m certain my… fatigue had nothing to do with it. And again, in the direct aftermath of that sleep, you performed admirably.”

“Please stop talking like Elias.”

Jon sighs sharply, making an abortive gesture with a hand presently holding a pen, a gesture sharp enough that the pen nearly goes flying. “Tim, you’re feeling guilty about things you shouldn’t feel guilty for,” he says frankly. “If anything, _I_ should be the one apologizing, considering how I slept in your bed for, cumulatively, over a week, under false pretenses –”

“Yeah, because I had you in a stranglehold!”

“Strangleholds imply you’re threatening actual strangulation –”

“Jon.” Tim leans forward. “I literally carried you to bed. And if you’d left, I’d probably have tracked you down and done it again.”

Jon purses his lips.

“Look, I also _groped_ you!”

“You thought I was a cat –”

“Yes, which ended in me getting a handful of your ass, so really –”

Jon buries his face in his hands, and Tim abruptly shuts up.

To be fair, being reminded of being trapped in someone else’s bed and groped would throw anybody.

“Look, just let me apologize?” Tim says, voice as quiet as Jon’s had been in the beginning. “Sasha said you think we can’t quit, and I don’t want you thinking I don’t know what I did, so…” Tim shrugs. “Guess we’ll be working together, and I don’t want you thinking I don’t know what I did.”

Jon mumbles something into his hands.

“So, I’m sorry,” Tim continues. “Not like you can put in a transfer request, so I’m sorry.”

Jon’s hands move from his face to his hair, fingertips digging into his scalp as he stares down at his desk. “Most people,” he says to his desk, “would see an animal flinch, laugh, and go about desensitizing the animal. That is how you get an animal used to things. That is what you do to get a dog used to a leash, or a cat used to a sweater.” Jon doesn’t look up.

Somehow, that makes the whole thing worse, and makes Tim’s heart clench. It’s not like he and Jon have always had the smoothest relationship, but this is not something easy to see.

“You,” Jon continues, “did not. You felt me tense, you acknowledged it, and you never did that again.”

“To be fair –”

“Tim, please.” Jon looks up finally, and his expression… is not one that Tim wants to name. That would make it realer, and worse. “You and Martin carried me around, but you also didn’t _hurt_ me. Please, stop blaming yourself.”

“Jon…”

“ _Tim_.”

It occurs to Tim that this is the most he’s heard Jon say in… a while. And then Tim remembers Jon’s extended rant about podcasts, and revises his opinion.

“…I apologize for insulting your taste in entertainment,” Jon adds, as if reading Tim’s mind. “It was uncalled for, with you feeding me and giving me a place to stay.”

“Yeah, _in my bed_.”

“Tim.”

Tim sighs. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll shut up about it, shall I?”

“I actually wanted to ask –”

Tim’s heart stops.

“—do you, ah.” Jon bites his lip. “Do you remember what episode of TAZ we were on?”

“Episode seven,” Tim says, without missing a beat.

He must have looked at his podcast feed earlier today. That’s why he remembers.

//

“Well?” Sasha prompts, when Tim collapses into his chair with a shocked expression.

“Well,” Tim agrees. “Hmn. Well.”

“How did it go?” Sasha asks, making a vague _continue_ gesture. “Did he spontaneously combust? Did he try to murder you?”

“Have you ever had a conversation that goes so wildly off course you feel like you got hit with a chair?” Tim asks.

“How do you know what getting hit with a chair feels like?” Sasha asks.

“That’s not important.”

“ _Well_?” Sasha asks, again.

“So.” Tim looks at Martin. “Yeah, he feels guilty.”

Sasha rolls her eyes. “I could have told you that.”

“Well, you _didn’t_ ,” Tim snaps, “so you can be quiet while my world crumbles beneath me.”

“…I’ll go make tea,” Martin says, standing.

He looks _very_ pale.

//

“…Sasha?”

Sasha pokes her head into Jon’s office, pausing midstep on her way from the stacks back to her desk. It’s five, after all. Time for her to flee the Archives and get up to some kind of mischief, though she hasn’t quite decided what brand she would go with tonight.

“I… I have a bit of a favor to ask,” Jon says slowly. He’s not making eye contact, staring somewhere past Sasha’s shoulder.

“Want me to come over again tonight?” Sasha guesses.

Jon flushes, but nods. “If it’s not too much trouble.”

//

(Jon falls asleep on the couch, knees curled up to his chest, slumped into Sasha’s side. She just smiles, gently scratches his scalp, and bodily picks him up so she can lay down and put him on her chest.

He may be adorable, but she’s not suffering through a day of work with a sore neck for him.

“Goodnight, Jon,” she says, and pulls the throw blanket over them both.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> summary: martin continues plotting with the sweater, and is later coerced into bringing jon tea, where he discovers that jon has cleared a spot on his desk specifically for martin to put tea. later, tim goes to talk to jon, where they talk about:  
> -injuries sustained during the month (tim grabbing jon by the braid to stop him from running, jon's coma, etc)  
> -who acted worse during the past month, with a reference to tim accidentally copping a feel when stroking jon's back  
> -jon's appreciation for tim's respect for jon's reactions  
> additionally, the talk ends with minor compelling on jon's part, in order to discover what episode of TAZ was up next. lastly, sasha goes home with jon, where he ends up falling asleep on her, and they spend the night on the couch.
> 
> also i can confirm that heel turns are the _worst_


	40. Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MARTIN.exe has stopped working. Please wait for MARTIN.exe to start responding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey remember when i said that sasha and tim's shenanigans are based directly off of things i do with my sister? well, i'm sasha in this case

The fun thing about Sasha’s sleep schedule is that she falls asleep at a disgusting hour.

The other fun thing about Sasha’s sleep schedule is that apparently, sleep is for the weak and she is quite strong.

Which is to say, by the time Jon’s out of the shower at five, Sasha is already up and making tea.

“Do you, ah. Your toothbrush is in the bathroom,” Jon offers, limping into the kitchen.

“Great,” Sasha says cheerfully. “How about you sleep at my place tonight, so I can have access to my makeup tomorrow morning?”

Jon shifts slightly, shifts in a careful way intended to not put pressure on his blisters. “Date?”

“No, I just like to keep my skills up. It’s like nice handwriting, you know? Completely unnecessary, but people judge you on it.” Sasha pauses.

“And by people, you mean men?” Jon guesses.

“No, women do the same. But it’s something you have to keep up, have to practice. Also, makeup does technically expire.”

“Makeup with natural ingredients expire quicker,” Jon says, nodding. “So I imagine the, the speed you need to use your makeup, is dependent on what you have.”

Sasha raises an eyebrow, glances at Jon out of the corner of her eye. “You watch a lot of beauty YouTubers?” she asks, only slightly teasing.

“It’s just common sense.” Jon burrows deeper into his jumper – dark red, today. Also an actual jumper, instead of a cardigan.

“Yeah, yeah. Here.” Sasha hands a mug of tea over to Jon, takes her own and chugs it with reckless abandon for scalded mouth and throat. She, frankly, has no idea how Jon takes his tea, but there’s only one type in the cupboard, so he can deal.

“We ought to leave soon,” Jon says, wrapping his hands around the steaming mug. Downside of being small, Sasha muses; he’s probably cold a lot.

“’Course, can’t have you get to work at a normal hour.”

“Go brush your teeth,” Jon grumbles, and Sasha just laughs.

//

“So what would you do when you got here early with Martin or Tim?” Sasha asks, ambling after Jon as he limps towards his office – close enough to catch him if he falls. She’s not dealing with a concussed Jon. Martin would have a conniption.

“I would pull files,” Jon says, “and if it I was with Martin, I would go over what he ought to work on that day.”

“He thought you were a cat.”

“Yes, there was a lot of… well, charades, I guess. I’d point at lines in statements that I wanted him to follow up on, and one day, he made a list of things to do and I chose from that list.”

“Huh.” Sasha follows in silence for a brief moment, pausing just outside Jon’s office as he shucks shoes and socks and limps the rest of the way to his chair. “Do you think he also has supernatural job security?”

“I don’t see why he wouldn’t.” Jon shrugs, glancing over the papers spread over his desk. Evidently, he hadn’t tidied up before leaving the night before. “Sasha, would you mind –”

“I have no training in teaching and I’m not going to learn,” Sasha says immediately. “Sorry, I just don’t have the temperament.”

Jon frowns. “You’re patient, and better with people,” he points out. His voice is argumentative – or, as close to it as Sasha’s heard in quite a while.

“Yes, and teaching is not my strong suit.”

Jon frowns at Sasha.

Sasha gives Jon an unimpressed look.

The standoff ends when Jon returns his gaze to the papers. “Of course. I’ll… I’ll see what I can do. Could Tim –?”

Sasha shrugs. “Tim’s Tim,” she offers. “Worth a shot.”

“Yes, I – I suppose. Thank you, Sasha.” Jon’s brow furrows, and Sasha takes the out.

It’s barely six. She’s not on the clock for another three hours, and Sasha’s ready to test Tim’s patience. She’s awake, he’s probably not, and that’s going to be _his_ problem.

//

“Fifty quid if you touch him,” Sasha mutters as she passes Tim’s desk.

“ _Fuck_ no,” Tim mutters back. “You’d have better luck asking _Martin_.”

A dangerous gleam enters Sasha’s eye, and Tim blanches on Martin’s behalf. “Don’t–”

“Your suggestion,” Sasha retorts, sing-song and utterly gleeful.

Tim is not religious. Never has been, _definitely_ isn’t now, because any God that looks at what happened to Danny and goes “Yeah, I’m down with that” is no God that Tim’s going to waste his time on.

He’s not religious. At all.

Tim still spares a moment to pray for Martin as Sasha makes directly for Martin’s desk, where Martin is going back and forth between typing furiously and scribbling in a notebook Tim’s never seen before.

It’s like watching a train wreck. Tim can’t look away as Sasha comes to a stop at Martin’s desk, clears her throat.

Martin looks up, and Tim winces in premature sympathy.

“So, tea?” Sasha prompts.

Martin looks at her desk. “I… I already made you tea? It’s sitting on your desk? If it’s gotten cold –”

“No, not for me.”

Tim can see the realization dawn on Martin’s face.

“For Jon,” Sasha says, a bit unnecessarily. “He’s been reading more statements, seems his throat might be getting sore.”

Martin’s expression is quickly turning to that of frozen terror. “What?” His voice sounds like a squeaky toy.

“I just thought he could use some tea.” Sasha shrugs, and Tim can vividly picture the look of innocence that must be on her face. “And you make it best of all of us.”

Compliments. Not one of Martin’s weaknesses, Tim knows, but definitely something Martin doesn’t know how to rebuff.

Which may be something Tim learned over the weekend they spent drunk.

So Martin nods slowly, reluctantly closes his notebook. “That makes sense, I suppose,” he admits, standing. It is clearly not a motion Martin’s happy about.

But Sasha’s bright tone would broke no argument, and Martin’s stuck in her web now.

Poor thing.

“Definitely looks like he could use a hug, too,” Sasha adds – but Martin clearly and blatantly ignores her in favor of walking away.

“That was mean,” Tim says, the moment Martin’s vanished into the break room.

“Absolutely.” Sasha does not sound regretful at _all_.

//

“Knock knock,” Martin says, voice bright with false cheer. The mug that he’s holding is still steaming, chamomile with just a bit of sugar. No milk to coat Jon’s throat.

Jon’s hair is down today, and he’s thoroughly buried in a red jumper that could probably be a _dress_ , collar hanging low down his chest and sleeves rucked up just to free Jon’s hands.

Definitely an oversized jumper, Martin decides. If he can get Jon’s measurements, he’ll try and make one more formfitting, but first…

It takes Jon a moment to look up from his work. There’s a smear of ink across his cheek, a spare pen tucked behind his ear, and – of course – vibrantly bright mismatched eyes. Of course. Because getting out from the Leitner’s effects wouldn’t be enough to get rid of everything. Honestly, Martin’s surprised Jon’s ears are still normal.

But Jon’s expression is tentatively hopeful, head tilted and eyebrows raised ever so slightly. The same place is cleared on Jon’s desk, but Martin waits in the doorway. It’d be rude to walk in without being invited, after all.

They stare for just a moment, neither quite making eye contact. It’s a tableau that Martin takes a small degree of relief in, because if they’re frozen in place then things can’t change, things can’t go downhill, Jon can’t yell at him for… something.

Martin’s still waiting for his lack of qualifications to come up. Though, Jon would have to actually _talk_ to Martin for that to happen. Which hasn’t happened. In part due to Martin’s actions, admittedly, but still.

Jon breaks the silence, because of course he does. Moments of peace, even if they were stretched out silences before his mother opened her mouth to criticize, were something Martin’s learned to draw out. Better silence than recrimination or rejection.

“Hello, Martin,” is what Jon says. Nothing cruel, nothing harsh, no rebuttal or refusal of tea. “Ah. How are you?” Jon’s voice is as tentative as his expression, and painfully familiar to Martin. But Martin still blinks in surprise at it, blinks in surprise at how naked the emotion is. Martin can vividly remember the descent into such openness, a descent that started slow and turned precipitous, a descent that he thinks was initiated back when Jon had awkwardly tried to comfort Martin on the kitchen floor. But seeing the result, now that he can _understand_ Jon, is a completely different matter.

“…Martin?” Jon ventures again, straightening his head and shifting his gaze from somewhere above Martin’s shoulder to Martin’s face. Still not making eye contact, but close enough. “Do you – do you need something?”

“Oh!” Martin gestures with the cup. “Tea? No biscuit today, sorry. Tim ate the rest of those.”

Jon’s smile is slow and as tentative as the rest of him. It’s really a bit of a problem, Martin thinks. _He’s_ supposed to be the awkward and tentative one, not Jon. “Yes, please,” Jon says, gesturing to the coaster that’s an island in the sea of papers. How Jon knows where anything is, is beyond Martin.

But just like yesterday, Jon reaches out when Martin approaches, carefully takes the mug as if he’s scared it will bite him. Or scared that Martin will do something to him, yell or do – do something bad. It’s an expression Martin recognizes, unfortunately. Their fingers brush, though, and Jon’s hand is cold.

…Maybe fingerless gloves, in addition to the jumper? Fingerless, so Jon can wear them while working. Maybe Martin could do some nice cables on those. He _liked_ cables.

“Thank you, Martin,” Jon says, bringing the mug close and practically curling around it.

Would a blanket be too much? Martin thinks he still has his mother’s old sewing machine, and quilting goes faster than knitting. Granted, he doesn’t have anywhere near as large a fabric stash as he does yarn stash, and he’s a bit out of practice.

“…Is there anything I can do for you?” Jon asks, even as he raises the mug to his lips and takes a careful sip. There’s no small grimace, no flash of distaste. Has he figured out how Jon likes his tea, Martin wonders, or has Jon forgotten all his preferences?

“Uh. No. No, I just –” Martin waves in the vague direction of the tea. “Yeah. Uh. Is – is there anything that, that I could. Well, do you have any specifics you want done today? Moving stuff, organizing anything? Get more tapes so you can record statements?”

Jon looks at Martin with a considering expression slowly overtaking his tentativeness. It’s enough to make Martin’s heart stop, those bright eyes looking directly at him with a quickly sharpening expression.

“Bring your laptop in here, and a notebook?” Jon asks – asks, not instructs, because Jon is apparently still too shaken from a _month of being treated like a cat_ to do something that bold.

Is this how Martin seems to others?

“I think we – I think going over plans might be a good idea. To give you an idea of what to do today.”

The suggestion does not help Martin’s heart restart.

//

Martin spends three hours in Jon’s office.

Tim may or may not have set a timer, starting when Martin collected laptop and notebook with an ashen face and wandered back towards Jon’s office, seemingly oblivious to Tim’s questions.

He emerges equally ashen, sets his things down with robotic motions, and collapses into his chair, staring vacantly ahead.

“See?” Tim points at Martin with a pen, glaring at Sasha. “You’ve broken him.”

Sasha purses her lips, looking Martin over. Tim might be seeing what he wants to see, but he swears there’s a tiny bit of remorse in Sasha’s opinion.

“Yeah,” is all she says.

//

“Martin!”

Martin starts, nearly dropping his notebook, and looks up to where Tim’s loitering by the door.

“You have anything tonight?” Tim asks, raising his eyebrows.

Martin… Martin does not think he’s a good enough liar right now to duck that question.

And apparently it’s evident on his face, because Tim grins.

“Come on, I bought ground beef, I’ll cook for you,” Tim offers.

The offer sounds appealing, though Martin knows his mouth will burn for it. But the company and the laughter? Well, it’s not like Martin has an actual cat to go home to. Or a roommate. Or _anything_ , really.

“Sure,” Martin says, and Tim’s grin turns blinding.

//

Sasha’s flat is a mess. There’s no other way to describe it. A mess in a way that seems like a precursor to the kind of clutter that characterizes Angela’s house. It’s just. A _mess._

But the floors are neatly swept and mopped, and Sasha orders Jon to take his shoes off, takes his overnight bag from him and dumps it next to the sofa, so Jon really can’t complain. Both because Sasha is his host and also because they’re slowly – what, becoming friends? Jon can’t say for certain. She’s fond of him, but. He’s not sure.

“Tea or coffee?” Sasha asks over her shoulder as she walks towards her kitchen. There’s an actual coffee maker, which does absolutely nothing to excuse Sasha’s sleep habits.

“Tea, please,” Jon says, carefully limping after her. He’d need to reapply the ointment to his feet before long, but it could wait.

“Black or green?”

“Green.” Green has less caffeine, and Jon likes to sleep, occasionally.

“Green it is.” Sasha puts on a pot of coffee nonetheless, and Jon has complete faith in her ability to drink the entire thing in an hour. “What were you talking to Martin about?”

“He had questions about what to do.” Jon doesn’t quite shrug, per say, but Sasha guesses what he does is a rough approximation of it. Best he can do without his jumper showing a shoulder, probably. “I, ah. Thought it would be best to cover everything at once.”

“Three hours, Jon. Tim timed it.”

“…he had a lot of questions?”

Sasha turns from the brewing coffee, and raises an eyebrow at Jon, who flushes.

“We were having a conversation, Sasha,” Jon insists, burrowing into his jumper.

“How many apologies were there?”

Jon’s blush spreads to his ears. “Sasha,” he says quietly, “I don’t want to talk about it. I – he wanted – I wanted to explain things.”

Sasha doesn’t press, no matter how much she may want to. It’s not her place. She’ll bully Martin about it, yes, but not Jon.

//

Sasha’s couch, at least, is comfortable. They make a nest of blankets and pillows, and she makes him sit through some awful movie full of bad accents and worse jokes. But it’s warm and quiet and Sasha doesn’t complain when he leans against her, which is really all Jon can ask for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look they talked. completely off screen because they were literally talking about what martin needs to do and i don't have a background in library sciences to be able to write that conversation, but they talked. The Conversation(TM) will come later
> 
> also i got the martim ball rolling but howmst the fuck do i manage to add jon. beyond making them talk, of course


	41. Friday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin gets a call. 
> 
> Drinks are had. 
> 
> Aggressive knitting is discussed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look yall have been very supportive of Martin's Knitting Adventures so that's a major subplot now. i love it. i get to project

“Blue lipstick,” Sasha says, grinning.

Jon stares at her, hands clasped around a quickly cooling mug of tea. “…No.”

“Purple?”

“No.”

Sasha sighs. “Chapstick?”

“…Is it tinted?”

“No, it’s just lip balm.” Sasha picks up a little tub of cream-colored balm, and holds it out. “No tint. Just really nice.”

Jon looks at her for a moment, but finally reaches out to accept the odd little tub. “Alright. Vaseline works just as well, you know.”

“But this smells like _vanilla_.”

Jon unscrews the lid, and yes, it very much does smell like vanilla.

He’s probably unleashing a monster, accepting the use of this. But it _does_ feel nice.

“…Eyeliner.”

“Sasha, that’s just asking for an eye infection.”

Sasha pouts at him, theatric and overdone, as if she isn’t halfway through applying said eyeliner.

“Sasha, no.”

“I’ll wear you down,” Sasha vows. “If it’s the last thing I do.”

“If you putting eyeliner on me will directly lead to your death, I’ll never let you get near me with it,” Jon says immediately – and at Sasha’s indelicate snort, his smile grows from something small and careful to a genuine thing that shows off teeth and crinkles the skin by his eyes.

“How about lipgloss?”

“Sasha, _no_.”

//

Sasha sticks her head into Jon’s office, a shit-eating grin on her face. “Tim and Martin got here together,” she says.

Jon looks at her blankly. “…Maybe they were on the same train?”

“And Martin’s still in the clothes from yesterday!”

…Well, they _were_ on the same train. And got coffee from the same shop – Martin’s treat, because they’d been up late watching old reruns and laughing together.

“Good for them,” is all Jon says, and he turns his attention back to his work. Statement of Yvonne Olivia, last name not given, taken in 1922, exact date illegible. (October 9th.) There’s follow up work Jon needed to assign. “Tell Tim to check his email?” he asks, glancing up from the statement. He hasn’t sent the email yet, but it will take Sasha some time to actually get the conversation past teasing and into business.

//

Martin’s expecting a call from the retirement home. He’d given them the time frame in which to call him (Lunch break, since Tim and Sasha were both planning on going in search of Chinese food for lunch), and now he’s sitting alone, waiting for the call.

Well, Jon’s in his office, but he really doesn’t count, since Martin doubts Jon will emerge of his own free will until his feet are healed. And the Archive floors are cold, and Jon’s feet have been bare.

…What’s Jon’s shoe size?

The notebook comes out again, Martin’s favorite pen in hand, and he flicks to a new page. Jon’s been wearing a lot of warm colors lately, maybe –

Martin’s phone rings, and his blood runs cold. Of course it does. What else could it do? Either it’s Mihaela, in which case Martin ought to be prepared to cry, or some scammer that Martin’s going to hang up on once they start going on at him in Chinese. He’s only been getting calls from Chinese-language scammers for some reason. Maybe it’s a sign that he should be doing Chinese on Duolingo?

The second half of his ringtone starts, and now Martin _flinches_.

But he answers the call.

It’s Mihaela.

“Martin!” Her voice is cheerful, thank God – Martin’s not sure what he would do if she sounded sympathetic. “Your mum’s willing to talk to you.”

The good news does not make Martin happy.

“Let me send the call through, alright?”

Martin takes a deep breath. “Yeah. Yeah, thanks.”

The call goes through almost immediately.

“Witaj.” His mother’s voice is clipped and harsh and cold, as it always is. She doesn’t wait for an answer. She rarely does, when she has a point to get across.

The point being, Martin is bothering her. Every Saturday is too often to call. He should call every other week at most, preferably once a month. So he can tell her about the sermons he’s listened to at church all at once, since it’s hard for her to go.

Martin doesn’t bother telling her that he hasn’t gone to church since she went to the home. She knows. It’s why she’s going on about that, Polish harsh and quick and unaccented. He’s always had a bit of an accent. He knows she’s always been unimpressed by it.

Martin’s been staring down at his desk the entire time, hiding the flush in his cheeks and the irritation in his eyes as his mother goes on, even though there’s nobody else in who would come by and see him.

So he’s not listening. Not paying attention to anything beside his mother.

So when someone picks up his knitting and moves it to his desk, Martin’s surprised. He hadn’t noticed the smell of cinnamon and bergamot, not until it’s too late and Jon is suddenly very close.

His jumper is green today, Martin notes with a vague sense of hysteria as Jon climbs directly into his lap, settling with the ease of practice and plucking Martin’s phone from his hand.

“Hello, Jadwiga,” Jon says, voice flat and cold. His Polish is unaccented, flawless and fluent, with nary a moment’s hesitation. “Martin is at work,” he continues in Polish, “and is quite busy. I am his direct superior, and I would like to tell you that I do not appreciate you bothering my staff in the middle of their workday.”

“He is the one who initiated the call,” Jadwiga retorts, and Jon looks Martin in the eye.

Jon looks… concerned. His eyebrows are raised and eyes wide, utterly at odds with his tone. And he’s _close_ , as close as he would get last month, settled neatly and comfortably in Martin’s lap like it was perfectly natural. “Be that as it may,” Jon says to Jadwiga, “you are interrupting his work, and I have entrusted quite a lot to him, as his work is consistently satisfactory. If you are going to yell at my employee, do it on your own time. Not on mine. He finishes at five, you may call him then and not a moment before.”

And Jon hangs up. Sticks the phone behind him on Martin’s desk. And doesn’t move.

“Are you alright?” Jon asks, voice finally matching his worried and concerned expression. Jon’s hands are tucked limply between them, and oh, they are _very_ close, and Martin can see all the flecks of color in Jon’s bright eyes and each eyelash.

Martin. Martin bursts into tears. His mother was always very good at causing that reaction.

And Jon – Jon’s hesitant, but he reaches out, shifts so they’re sitting chest to chest, and wraps his arms around Martin.

Martin’s clinging, he knows, fisting his hands in the back of Jon’s jumper – it’s made of very cheap polyester, clearly machine made and probably cost Jon less than twenty pounds – but it already smells like Jon when Martin buries his face in the crook of Jon’s neck.

Jon has gotten good at this over the past month, Martin notes. He can’t complain, though. Not when Jon’s running his hands over Martin’s back and humming softly into Martin’s hair.

…When did Jon learn fluent Polish, though?

//

Martin is not telling him something. Tim knows this for a fact.

And after he’d made such a good meal for Martin the night before.

Tim does his best not to feel betrayed, as Martin shifts in his seat and refuses to make eye contact with either him or Sasha.

Sasha, who is presently _vibrating_ in her seat, having thoroughly given up on work and, if Tim has to judge, is trying to read some Wikipedia page or another and is failing miserably.

Tim was going to get Martin boba next week. But after this betrayal? No. 

//

“Sasha, I’ll be fine,” Jon says, shaking his head. “I promise I’ll go home at a decent time. Go have fun.”

Sasha raises her eyebrows. “You could come with us, you know,” she points out. “I can carry you. You weigh nothing.”

Jon flushes. “I’m – I do not weigh _nothing_ ,” he insists. “Look, I have – there are a few statements I want to record, and then I’ll go home. I’m visiting Angela tomorrow, she can confirm.”

Sasha stares at him for a moment longer. Then shrugs, and reaches into her pocket. “You know my number,” is all she says. “And here.” She tosses him the odd little tub of lip balm – no, she tosses him a fresh tub of the same. It’s small, with a French name that Jon isn’t sure how to pronounce, and still smells of vanilla. At least it isn’t tinted. “Don’t bother asking how much that was, I won’t tell you. But come on, if you’re going to do something that turns Martin into more of a stammering mess than usual, take care of your lips, okay?”

“ _Sasha!_ ”

Sasha just cackles as she leaves.

“ _That wasn’t my fault!_ ”

Sasha doesn’t bother to grace that lie with a response.

//

“It’s definitely from Amazon,” Martin says, only slightly slurred.

“Martin, half of my jumpers are from Amazon,” Tim says patiently.

And then Martin turns a horrified look on Tim, and Tim immediately regrets saying that.

“Tomorrow,” Martin says, “I’m measuring you. What’s your favorite color?”

“Green?”

Martin pulls out the little notebook – it’s a plain, cheap one that probably came from Amazon – and grabs a pen from his bag.

And then proceeds to aggressively interrogate Tim, only slightly stumbling over his words.

Tim makes eye contact with Sasha, raises his eyebrows helplessly.

“Now you know what my gran is like,” Sasha says dryly, taking a sip of her beer.

“Do you like socks?” Martin asks, turning to a new page.

“Dear god.”

“I like wool socks. Wool socks are nice,” Martin rambles. “I like cables. Cables with tiny yarn is fun.”

“You know, I think he may be worse than my gran,” Sasha muses.

“I’m – I’m gonna.” Martin yawns. “I’m going to beat your gran. I’m going to finish a jumper first.”

“Mhm. I’m so sure,” Sasha says, patting Martin on the shoulder. “Good luck. I’m sure Tim will love the jumper.”

“No, I’m making _Jon_ one,” Martin slurs, taking a deep swig of his beer. “He’s cold. I’m going to give him so much. He’s going to be so warm.”

“And wool knits are like a hug?”

“Exactly!”

“Any time you want to stop encouraging him will be great,” Tim says helplessly.

“No,” Martin insists. “You made me dinner, I’m making you a jumper.”

“That’s really not equivalent!”

Though admittedly, a wool jumper sounds nice. Especially considering it’s _winter_.

//

Jon’s flat is quiet. But when he gets there, the lights are off, as he left them the day before when he and Sasha left for work. And his closet door is off-white again.

Jon had planned on making several of Angela’s recipes, so that there will be something to talk about when he visits tomorrow. He’s made several. But he hasn’t attempted the chocolate muffins yet, and he’d stopped at the shop, so.

So Jon grabs a bowl, turns on a random episode of one of the podcasts Tim had shown him, and sets to work.

//

Muffins, Jon discovers, are difficult. And complicated. And he’s not sure if he overmixed them.

But they smell good, and taste good, and the texture is probably right? He hasn’t had muffins in years, he has nothing to really base them on. When he’d stop at a shop for breakfast in the morning, he’d always pick some kind of cream cheese pastry or another. Perhaps not the best breakfast, but muffins always seemed like a gamble.

But these seem… adequate?

Jon can’t say.

He still packages some up to bring tomorrow, types up notes in his document detailing his adventures with Angela’s recipes, and eats a third muffin.

He likes them, Jon decides. They’re good. Maybe Angela could show him the best way to make them, if he’s done something wrong?

//

Sasha’s curled up in bed, scrolling through Twitter, when something occurs to her.

Sappy, maybe, but hey.

_Goodnight_ , she texts Jon. He responds almost instantly.

_Goodnight_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you can bet that jon awkwardly slinked away from the cuddle/comfort session. also yes, martin still smells like jon's hair oil


	42. Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gay panic, knitting, a sad dearth of Sasha, and not a lot else. 
> 
> Also, a cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> what's up, this chapter was like P U L L I N G T E E T H

Jon doesn’t exactly sleep after Sasha texts him.

Which he feels completely justified about.

Laying in bed staring at the ceiling makes him feel like an idiotic teenager, but his head hurts too much to read. He feels… odd.

Underneath the roiling thoughts surrounding Martin and how Jon probably will have an HR complaint to deal with come Monday, he just feels _odd_. Like his head is lagging behind his body, lolling back with any movement, like he’s overeaten food too rich for more than two bites.

But it’s not quite enough to focus on to draw Jon’s attention away. And rolling onto his side and pulling the blankets over his head don’t do much, either.

Martin had been receptive. Very much so. He’d stared at Jon, yes, but he hadn’t stolen the phone back, hadn’t shoved Jon off, hadn’t turned away when he burst into tears. Had accepted the hug and comfort, no matter how awkward Jon may have been in offering it.

Jon rolls over again, curling his knees up to his chest and burying his face in his blankets. His arms _ache_ for some reason, and wrapping them around his knees don’t do any help. All it does is spread the ache to his chest and sternum.

Long term effects of the Leitner, perhaps?

//

“You look awful,” Angela says, ushering Jon in and closing the door quickly behind him.

“I’m sorry?” Jon says, frowning slightly.

“You shouldn’t be,” Angela says, patting Jon’s arm. “I’ll just need to talk to your coworkers if this keeps up.”

“Angela, I promise –” Jon begins, removing his coat and toeing off his shoes.

“I’m sure Sasha can appraise me of what’s going on at work, if you won’t.”

Jon looks blankly at Angela.

Angela raises an eyebrow at Jon. Did Sasha get _all_ her facial expressions from Angela?

“…Are you asking about my week?”

//

Martin wakes up to three texts from Sasha, and eighteen text messages from Tim.

Sasha’s texts were asking whether he got home safely. Tim’s have a more… varied range of topics.

Three are clearly measurements that Martin remembers taking last night (and doesn’t that make him turn red, that he’d now have to have a conversation with Tim over whether Tim _wanted_ anything Martin could make – and also the fact that taking measurements does not allow for personal space), but the rest of the texts are actually from Tim himself. One is making sure Martin got home safely. The rest of which are interrogations about what happened Friday afternoon.

Martin groans, and hides his face in his pillow. According to his phone, it is well past ten, and Martin is _tired_. His head doesn’t hurt, thank god, but nor was he drunk enough to conveniently forget yesterday.

Martin is in no place to lie to himself enough to say that Jon’s assistance was unwelcome. Unexpected, yes, but not unwelcome. And the hug, that probably lasted well over ten minutes, was deeply appreciated.

But Martin can’t forget the awkward way in which Jon left, sliding off of Martin’s lap with a wince and hobbling back to his office without a backwards glance – but only doing that much after thoroughly interrogating Martin.

_Are you alright?_

_Are you sure?_

_Do you want to go home early today?_

_Can I do anything to help?_

No questions about the details of how Martin’s relationship with his mother turned sour, or why he’d asked his mother to call in the first place, or even why Martin had asked her to call over his lunch break. Or why Martin had seen fit to have that call in the office, instead of vacating the premises so others didn’t have to hear his drama. No, Jon hadn’t asked any of that. He hadn’t demanded anything, hadn’t told Martin off.

Which is arguably worse.

Martin’s used to being told off. He’s had quite a lot of practice with that.

He’s not used to Jon _caring_.

//

Sweater making is very labor intensive. Martin’s green sweater, the one that – good lord, the one that Jon _still_ _hasn’t given back_ – took over a hundred hours, even taking into account the worsted yarn.

Angela doesn’t make it look so.

One episode of _Poirot_ and she’s already working on the yoke, ribbing and short rows done, needles clacking rapidly as she knits without looking, attention fully on the TV.

“Do you need another skein?” Jon asks as the credits roll, glancing at the steadily depleting ball of yarn in Angela’s lap.

“If you don’t mind, that’d be lovely,” Angela says, putting her needles down for a moment to stretch her fingers. “Just –”

“Skein around a chair’s legs, wind the cake around a pencil for the first dozen meters?” Jon says without thinking, standing with a wince.

Angela looks at him for a moment, an odd look that has Jon resisting the urge to shift awkwardly. “…Yes. And you really should go to a doctor.”

“My feet are healing,” Jon insists. “Slowly, but they’re healing. I – I can _walk_ now, after all.”

Angela doesn’t look that convinced, but nor does she comment.

//

“I have food and I have a pair of scissors for you, now talk,” Tim declares, handing the scissors to Martin as he slips through the doorway.

“Do you _want_ a jumper?” Martin asks, pocketing the scissors and walking after Tim.

Tim puts the food down, and turns to stare blankly at Martin. “What? Martin, that’s _definitely_ not what I was asking about.”

“Jumper, Tim. Do you actually want one?”

Tim’s expression doesn’t change.

“I – look, Tim, I’m not – these things take a lot of time! I know I said I’d make you one, but I don’t think – I’m not going to spend hundreds of hours on something that will end up sitting in your drawer and never getting worn!” Martin winces at the end, stuffs his hands into his pockets and does his best not to collapse in on himself. He’d gotten a bit… loud. At the end.

Tim’s expression changes, just slightly. “Well,” he says after a minute, “think that’s a choice I should take a bit to think about, yeah?”

Martin turns his gaze from Tim to the bag of food Tim had brought.

“Fried rice,” Tim says, without prompting. “I promise, I didn’t make it too spicy. We gotta build your tolerance up, right?”

Martin sighs, and takes his hands from his pockets. “What kind of tea do you want?”

“Don’t really care.” Tim shrugs when Martin tosses an unimpressed look over his shoulder. “I brought food, you’re making tea, we’re even.”

Martin huffs as he fills the kettle, sets it to boil, grabs two mugs and a box of green tea.

“Anyway, Martin. Yesterday. What happened?”

Martin doesn’t turn around from where he’s conveniently busy putting teabags in mugs and getting a small container of sugar out.

“Martin.”

The carton of milk comes to rest next to the mugs, and Martin still doesn’t turn around.

“ _Martin_.”

“ _What_?” Martin snaps, turning to face Tim. “Nothing happened! We went out for drinks, and I’m still waiting on your answer about the jumper!”

Tim purses his lips. “How much would the yarn cost?” he asks instead, leaning against Martin’s table.

“It would be yarn I already have,” Martin says, running a hand through his hair. “You know. Stash yarn.”

“Martin, I’m –” Tim sighs. “How much did the yarn cost? Can’t be cheap, and I’m not going to –”

Martin shakes his head sharply, cutting Tim off. “You’re not paying me,” he says flatly. “Look, I don’t knit for commissions, or whatever. You’re not paying me for the yarn. If you actually want a jumper, then it’ll be a gift.”

And then the kettle shrieks. And the conversation is over.

Well, that topic of the conversation.

“Really though, what happened while Sasha and I were gone?”

Martin buries his face in his hands, and groans.

“Look, Martin.”

Martin looks up reluctantly, only because Tim crosses over to the stove and pulls Martin’s hands away from his face.

“Martin, I’m really going easy on you,” Tim says earnestly, patting Martin’s cheek. “I could call Sasha.”

Martin buries his face in Tim’s shoulder in utter _despair_.

“Martin, Sasha said something happened, and you aren’t telling me! You betrayed me!”

“Nothing happened,” Martin insists into the fabric of Tim’s hoodie.

“Uh-huh.”

Martin can practically feel Tim’s disbelieving expression boring a hole into the top of his head, even as Tim’s arms come up as if on habit and wrap around Martin.

“You were just reduced to a stammering mess by nothing?”

“Tim,” Martin complains, pulling back and returning his attention to actually making tea.

“Martin,” Tim mimics. “Martin, come on. We spent a weekend wine-drunk together, I think you can trust me!”

“I’m trusting you with the knowledge that nothing happened,” Martin says, stirring Tim’s tea with perhaps a bit too much vigor.

“Yeah, because you’re absolutely acting like nothing happened.”

Martin practically shoves the tea at Tim, doing his best to glare as he did so. “Leave off!”

Tim takes the tea with a sigh. “Alright, alright. Lunch, and then I’ll try and rip your secrets out of you.”

Martin bites back another groan, and turns to his own tea.

This, Martin feels, is why people commit murder.

//

“I’m supposed to tell you that I got home at a decent time,” Jon says as they stand side-by-side at the kitchen sink, washing dishes.

“And why are you supposed to tell me that?”

“Sasha.” Jon shrugs. “At least, I assume I’m supposed to tell you? I’m not exactly – well, she didn’t really give instructions.”

“Bad decision on her part,” Angela muses, taking the last plate from Jon and setting it in the drying rack. “Instructions are important.”

Jon glances at Angela out of the corner of his eye. “Is this leading to another topic?”

“Yes. But first, hold still.”

Jon goes stock-still – and then a very familiar sensation appears, that of a cat clawing its way up his leg and into his arms.

“This is Fish,” Angela says, gently scratching under Fish’s chin.

Fish is, objectively speaking, one of the prettiest cats Jon has ever seen. Sleek silvery fur, bright blue eyes, graceful bone structure, and surprisingly friendly. Fish stares up at Jon, blinking slowly, before headbutting his shoulder and flailing to be let down. And within seconds of being introduced, Fish vanishes again.

“That _was_ Fish,” Angela corrects.

“Did you name him that because he looks like a fish?” Jon asks dryly.

“No, Sasha named him after he stole a bite of her food,” Angela says. “Now. Did you happen to cook at all this week?”

//

Jon leaves with… significantly more recipes than he can make in a week, a box of leftovers, and a skein of green yarn – one skein that Martin had looked longingly at, neat handspun in a massive hank bigger than Fish. One that Angela had handed over in exchange for the rest of Jon’s muffins.

It’ll make a good peace offering, hopefully. Since Jon has apparently stolen Martin’s jumper out of sheer forgetfulness.

Maybe Jon should get some tea tomorrow, add to the package. _Sorry I stole your handknit jumper, have a massive skein of yarn and some of your preferred tea, which I know for reasons completely unrelated to when you took me home with you for the better part of a month!_

…He’ll work on the delivery.

//

“You’re an awful sport, you know?”

Jon freezes at the voice, hands stilling around his bowl of reheated lunch. He doesn’t _want_ to turn and face it, doesn’t want to turn and see the riotous blond hair and eye-searing colors.

“Permanent marker. Really.” A hand comes to rest on Jon’s shoulder, and he bites back a shudder at the sharp fingertips that threaten to pierce through Jon’s hoodie – bites back a shudder at the feeling of sticks wrapped in wet leather coming to rest on his shoulder.

“You are an awful sport,” it continues, pout audible in its voice. “And you have horrible taste in clothing.”

Jon finds his voice. “Why are you here?” he asks, voice scratchy and practically catching in his throat, coming out in a burst not dissimilar to audio from a cheap radio exploding past the static of the speakers.

“To say hello.” The hand tightens then, and Jon’s certain that he’ll have to replace the hoodie. “That was rude, Archivist. I’m afraid I’m not in the _mood_ for such a thing, and if you’re going to be _rude_ …”

The hand vanishes, and Jon turns in time to see a gaudy yellow door in his _ceiling_ close and vanish.

There’s a distinct possibility that Jon’s perhaps bitten off more than he can chew, with this job. Considering how the thing called him “Archivist,” how the thing had broken into his flat through a – a _magic door_.

Jon sighs, and sits down where he’s standing in the middle of the kitchen. He’s not dealing with this tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have i had the exact same interaction as the one between martin and tim? yes. and that's why my sister gets handknit socks, and nobody else.
> 
> also don't worry jon's just being touch starved, there's no actual leitner spookiness surrounding his arms


	43. Thursday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Items are returned and gifts are given. 
> 
> Tim remembers. 
> 
> Elias, unfortunately, makes an appearance. 
> 
> Jon does his best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey remember when i said that time skips would happen  
> well, a time skip has happened
> 
> also, cw for reference to drug/alcohol abuse to deal with grief. chapter summary in the end notes
> 
> but most importantly!! look!!!  
> https://im-illegal-art.tumblr.com/post/619386749778558976/i-dearly-love-solitaaaaaairrrre-s-fic-scritches  
> https://satanicartpirate.tumblr.com/post/619774812630482944/some-wine-drunk-martim-for-ur-trouble-also-from  
> https://satanicartpirate.tumblr.com/post/619949897845702656/tim-and-sashas-pen-war-from-scritches-for-the  
> https://satanicartpirate.tumblr.com/post/619774385123983360/solitaaaaaairrrre-beautiful-scritches-for-the

Come Thursday, Jon still hasn’t given the jumper back.

He ought to, he knows. It’s just getting ridiculous. He’s washed it thoroughly (handwashed in his sink with gentle wool wash, laid flat to dry), and it no longer smells _quite_ so strongly of his hair oil, but still. It’s soft, and warm, and… he may or may not curl around it most nights.

But it’s getting ridiculous. Jon knows that, he doesn’t need anybody to tell him.

So the jumper goes in a bag, alongside the jeans and socks he’d also borrowed, with yarn and tea on top. Green tea, with ginger.

And when he gets to the Archives, the bag goes in Martin’s chair on Jon’s way to his office.

A statement to record today, unfortunately. Jon probably should finish that before his assistants arrive, so there’s no chance of interruption.

And no chance of giving any of them nightmares, should they overhear.

(Sasha had mentioned that one night, tired and bleary and uncensored. It’s… something Jon had never thought of. But it’s something he’d very much like to avoid.)

//

There is a bag in Martin’s chair. A plastic Tesco bag, neatly tied and rather full.

“Secret admirer?” Tim teases as he heads to his own desk, tapping rapidly at his computer’s keyboard to wake it up.

“Doubtful,” Martin mutters, tearing through the plastic in his attempt to untie the knot.

It’s tea.

And yarn. Angela’s handspun. Martin knows for a fact, because he’d spent a great deal of time staring at it when they’d visited Angela.

It is, quite frankly, _glorious_. Smooth and even in a way that only decades of practice can create, a grey that’s both soft in color and soft to the touch. Toothy, too – probably without a nice drape, but it would knit up into something wonderfully solid and dense.

The skein is also larger than a small cat. And Martin flushes slightly when his mind goes directly to wondering if he could make Jon a jumper out of it.

But beneath the yarn are items that betrays the giver; Martin’s green jumper with the tree-inspired cables, and his missing pair of jeans, and one of his pairs of ribbed socks. It’s from Jon, then.

“Well?” Tim prompts, sitting down at his desk and glaring at his lagging computer.

“Jon,” Martin says simply.

“Huh. He gave you yarn?”

“Apparently.”

“I feel like that’s a bad idea,” Tim muses, smiling in satisfaction when the computer finally loads.

“Well, normally, yeah,” Martin agrees. “Better to just give someone money for yarn, usually. But I guess he heard I wanted this?” He shrugs. “It’s nice. I – well, I’m looking forward to it.”

Tim glances over, raises an eyebrow at the sheer size of the hank. “Am I right in thinking that’s huge?”

“Yeah.” Martin hefts the skein, frowning at it. “Five hundred grams? I’m not sure.”

“What do you do with something like that?” Tim asks idly, turning his gaze fully and attention partly to the computer.

“Weigh it the skein, and then figure out how it works up,” Martin says. “It’s not that hard, but it’ll take time, I guess.”

“Huh.”

Martin sighs, and replaces the items in the bag. “I know, I know.”

Tim glances away from his computer. “I’m not telling you to shut up,” he says. “Just don’t really know what that means.”

Martin shrugs. “It’s just – knitting has a lot of math, you know? It’s the only place you use algebra outside of class.”

Tim laughs shortly. “What, you don’t use the Pythagorean Theorem every day?”

“ _Tim_.”

//

“Any particularly spooky work today?” Sasha asks as she rounds Jon’s desk, words only half teasing.

Jon just sighs in response, tapping his pen against the paper he’s presently working on. “I’ve already sent that out,” he says without looking up. “I promise, no ghost hunting.”

“Yay,” Sasha drawls, coming to a stop behind Jon. She drapes herself across his shoulders with the ease and grace of an old cat, arms coming around his neck and hands clasping together against his sternum, chin resting atop his head. 

And without thinking, Jon’s hand comes up to rest on top of Sasha’s.

“How’re your feet doing?”

“Healing,” Jon says.

“Shoes still hurt?”

“Of course they do. But they’re getting better.”

Sasha hums, squeezing once before letting go. She pretends not to see Jon’s shiver. “Well, if that’s all, I’m going to get started on the absolutely not spooky work you’ve assigned us.”

“Sasha…”

Sasha laughs. “Come on, Jon, it’s not that big a deal. This entire place is slightly scary, you know? We literally work in an archive in a _basement_ , with a door that weighs a ton. I swear, Tim’s the only one who can easily open that thing, and god only knows how much time he spends at the gym.”

“It’s not,” Jon insists. “It’s not scary. It’s just –”

“Unnerving?” Sasha offers, and Jon turns enough to give her an unimpressed look.

“You’re letting the draft get to you,” he says primly. “And don’t you have work to do?”

Sasha lightly flicks him on the nose, and grins when he frowns at her. “Alright, boss!”

“Please don’t.” Jon’s frown turns to a grimace. “You sound like Tim.”

“That is the opposite of a problem, Jon.”

Jon points to the office door – propped open, as is his new habit. “Work, Sasha. Work.”

//

Contrary to popular belief, Tim’s not emotionally invincible.

He can roll with quite a lot, but he’s not invincible.

Especially not today. Not when memories of clowns and deaths are roiling in his mind until all he can do is stare at his computer, mindlessly scrolling through the work he’s supposed to be doing.

“Martin, are you supposed to be moving boxes today?” Tim asks, glancing over at Martin’s desk.

“Yeah, why?”

“Can I do that? Think I’ll go crazy if I go through another obituary.”

Martin frowns, but nods. “…Yeah. The ones in the boxes labeled for the 1920’s. They’re stuck with the 1800’s.”

Tim nods. “Thanks.”

He does move the boxes, of course. Eight boxes, probably with absolutely no statements from the labeled decade. But he moves them as instructed.

And then Tim’s done. But it’s after lunch, and he doesn’t think anybody’s going to venture into the stacks in search of him.

So he doesn’t regret sitting down, leaning against a wall and pressing his fingertips to his temples. He doesn’t close his eyes – Tim can’t trust that he won’t be hit with memory after memory, images he’d rather not see again.

Normally, he’d get spectacularly drunk. Or take cold medicine and knock himself out. Not healthy coping habits, Tim’s well aware of that, but they’re better than getting consumed by memories and utterly wallowing. But no, it’s a _weekday_ , and it’s not like he can go home sick without fielding questions he doesn't want to answer. 

His eyes are open and he’s staring ahead.

But Jon approaches from the side, still limping, and it isn’t until there’s a hesitant tapping on Tim’s shoulder that he realizes he has company.

“Are you alright?” Jon asks, voice quiet.

Tim doesn’t answer for a moment, just stares at Jon, stares at the bright mismatched eyes that could practically _glow_ in the right lighting.

“Tim?”

Tim mentally shakes himself, and pulls up his normal smile. “’Course, boss. What do you need?”

Jon frowns slightly – an expression that Tim will honestly admit that he _misses_ , oddly enough, because that frown at least means _normalcy_.

“Are you sure?” Jon asks, and oh, he’s kneeling quite close to Tim.

Tim shrugs. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You didn’t notice me, and didn’t react when I first spoke to you,” Jon says.

Hmn. That –

Hmn.

Not something Tim can immediately explain.

And his pause brings a bit of concern to Jon’s eyes. “Are you alright?” he repeats, scooting forward just a tad. And again, “Are you alright?”

Tim shrugs vaguely. “Yeah. Anyway, what do you need?”

Jon doesn’t believe him. Tim doesn’t need to be a mind reader to know that much.

Tim isn’t prepared for Jon to hesitantly open his arms, make vague grabby hands in Tim’s direction, obviously telegraphing his request.

Well, with Jon asking so nicely, it’s not like Tim is going to say _no._

//

Tim’s as warm as Jon remembers. His grip is as firm as Jon remembers, too, even as awkward as their position is – Tim twisted at the waist and leaning forward, Jon kneeling with his knees barely touching the side of Tim’s thigh.

It’s – well. There’s a reason Jon’s missed it.

And there’s a strength behind Tim’s hug that Jon tries not to read into, and an unwillingness to let go when Jon moves closer still, shifts until he’s sitting on Tim’s lap so Tim’s no longer twisted and awkward.

Tim doesn’t let go, and neither does Jon. Not when Tim’s gripping him the same way Martin had.

…Sasha had better be proud of him for this, Jon thinks absently.

Though it’s not like he’s going to report back to her.

//

Tim’s not quite sure how long they sit there, him clinging to Jon with his face pressed against the top of Jon’s head, Jon a comforting weight in his lap and just as fierce in returning Tim’s hug. He can’t regret it, either, even though it will make looking Jon in the eye just as difficult as it was the moment he realized that Jon was _Jon_ , not a cat they’d adopted from a shelter. Not when it’s as quiet as it is, and Jon’s presence is as calming as it is.

It doesn’t solve anything, of course. Tim can still hear circus music. But it helps, a bit.

Though Jon’s toes are _quite_ cold, pressing into Tim’s thighs as they are.

//

“I was hoping I’d find you here,” Elias says mildly, closing the door to Jon’s office behind him.

“I’m not sure where else I’d be,” Jon mutters, capping his pen and looking up at Elias.

“Well, considering you were missing when I last came in search of you…” Elias doesn’t _shrug_ , doesn’t do anything as common as that, but Jon gets the distinct impression that Elias would be shrugging, were he a normal person.

Elias stays silent for a moment, eyebrows raised at Jon.

Jon doesn’t explain where he was. Tim’s moment in the stacks is none of Elias’ business. And eventually, Elias gets the point.

“Anyway. I merely wanted to check on you, check on how you’ve settled back into your, ah, _normal_ work environment.”

Jon shrugs. His cardigan is fitted normally today, though he can feel Elias judging him for the plain shirt he has underneath. “It’s not all that different. They just can see my emails now.”

“Hm.” Elias frowns slightly at him. “And how have the statements been coming along?”

Jon resists the urge to narrow his eyes at Elias. “…Fine. I’ve managed to work my way through quite a few.”

“Really?” Elias looks… impressed. Interested. Something else that Jon is resolutely not going to name.

“A few.” Nine.

“Impressive. Considering you were barely managing one a week before the whole nasty business with the Leitner.”

Jon frowns. “Do you think that’s related?”

“Perhaps. But if it is, can you complain?”

“Yes,” Jon says immediately, and Elias huffs a small laugh.

“Of course, it was rather unpleasant,” Elias admits, “but injuries aside, you have to admit that the results are rather beneficiary.”

“Two of my assistants can’t look at me most of the time,” Jon retorts. “And the last can only cover so much communication.”

“I’m sure that will work itself out in time,” Elias says smoothly, and Jon can feel irritation slowly building in his chest. “How are your feet?”

“Healing.” Jon’s tone is flat, and the look in Elias’ eyes changes ever so slightly.

“Of course,” Elias says.

And that’s that.

Elias doesn't leave, though. No, instead he continues speaking. 

“Your situation aside,” he adds, “I don’t think it’s necessary to send you another copy of the dress code, now do I?”

Jon looks Elias dead in the eye. “What, are you going to fire me?”

//

Tim can guess what Jon’s going to talk to him about, when he gets the email asking him to come to Jon’s office – an email that comes through right before five, when Tim’s still on the clock.

And it’s not like he can just _ignore_ it, no matter how much he’d like to.

So he goes to Jon’s office like a man facing the executioner, and finds Jon in the process of tidying his desk.

“Hey boss,” Tim says, brightness forced into his tone with the ease of practice. “You need me?”

Jon looks up slowly, blinking at Tim as if in surprise. Had he expected Tim to ignore the email?

“Yes, I – thank you. I was – well, would you mind coming in and closing the door?”

That definitely doesn’t bode well, Tim decides. At all.

But he obeys, closing the door behind him and sprawling in the chair on the opposite side of Jon’s desk. “What’s going on?”

“I want – well, I was.” Jon cuts himself off, a vaguely frustrated look coming across his face.

_Definitely_ doesn’t bode well.

“How are you?” Jon asks after a moment.

Bit of a let down, all things considered, but Tim’s fielded worse questions at worse times.

“Fine,” Tim says with a shrug.

“Are you sure?” Jon asks, voice quiet and nigh hesitant.

“’Course. Why’d I lie about that?”

Jon opens his mouth. Seems to think better of what he was going to say, and closes it again.

“That all?” Tim raises his eyebrows at Jon.

“Are you sure?” Jon asks again.

“Jon,” Tim drawls, “it’s not like I’m going to lie about a question like _that_. What would I have to gain?”

“I just wanted to check,” Jon says. “You –”

“I was a bit down, yeah,” Tim cuts in. “But hey, you helped, and I’m good now, alright?”

Jon blinks slowly. “If you’re sure,” he says. “You have my number if you need anything.”

“Yeah.” Though Tim absolutely wouldn’t use it. No, Jon had seen him nigh breaking point this afternoon, and once was enough, regardless of how warm and soothing the hug was. “That it?”

“…Yes, I suppose it is,” Jon says, voice damnably quiet and soft. “See you tomorrow, Tim.”

//

Tim misses Jon, as embarrassing as that is. Misses having someone else in his flat – quite frankly, someone to touch and hug. But it is what it is. Jon had helped him today, and that’s all he can ask for. Unfortunately.

But memories are better than nothing, and there's a fresh memory today.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter summary: jon gives martin's sweater back, along with a skein of angela's handspun and a box of tea. sasha talks to jon in his office, where she gives him a hug and asks about his feet, and jon says that they're healing slowly. tim is having a bad day due to flashbacks of danny's death, and ends up going into the stacks and organizing boxes. after he's done with that, he sits down in the stacks to try and deal with his mood. jon tracks him down, and ends up climbing into tim's lap and hugging him for an extended period of time. elias stops by jon's office, talks about jon's new ability to record multiple statements in quick succession, and tries to dresscode jon. towards the end of the day, jon calls tim into his office to check up on him. tim insists he's fine, and jon doesn't push it, but tells tim to call him if he needs anything. at the end, tim goes home alone and reflects on how his flat seems empty without someone else. 
> 
> tim: gets one (1) hug  
> tim: okay that's enough emotional vulnerability for today. can't turn this into a joke, not gonna acknowledge it
> 
> also sad/tentative jon :( come on, tim won't bite, this isn't s2
> 
> and yeah this was written in a sleep-deprived haze, how badly can you tell


	44. Friday, 8 Days Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin attends a meeting, and breaks into a building. 
> 
> Tim's life flashes before his eyes (twice). 
> 
> Sasha is a troublemaker. 
> 
> Elias, unfortunately, makes an appearance.

Jon never thought he would look forward to taking the train to work, never thought he would look forward being stuck in a crowded train car with only his headphones as a buffer to the crowd.

But his feet are healed enough to stand that long, move quickly enough to survive the crushing throng of people without a plethora of dirty looks. It takes three pairs of socks to cushion his feet, but he can move well enough, stand long enough, walk quickly enough.

Taking the train is a small victory. But he can weather the odd looks as people take note of his eyes, if he can stand for so long with minimal pain.

It used to be his hair that drew the most attention, long as it is. Jon’s not quite sure his eyes are an improvement, not with people making awkward and prolonged eye contact as they try to judge if he’s wearing contacts or not.

But he can deal with that. If only to celebrate the small victory. If only to have a small bit of normalcy.

//

“Martin, would you mind coming in for a moment?” Jon asks, voice quiet as he gestures to his office. “I have something I’d like to go over with you.”

Martin’s heart sinks. Understandably, since _I’d like to go over something_ is roughly analogous to _We need to talk_ , at least by the standards of Jon since the Leitner. Quiet voice, small movements, but somehow Jon manages to still be utterly dread-inducing.

Martin stands, though.

“Bring your laptop,” Jon adds.

“Rip in pieces,” Tim says dryly as Martin walks towards Jon, and Martin just winces in response. That… will probably not be too far away from what Martin’s going to be doing after this meeting.

Jon’s desk is surprisingly neat, all things considered. Which is to say, the papers and statements are in three jumbled stacks by the edge of the desk, piles reminiscent of how Gertrude’s filing system worked, and it makes Martin’s stomach clench at the thought of the mood that the mess is going to put Jon in.

“Do I need to close the door?” Martin asks, pausing just inside the doorway.

“I – if you want?” Jon shrugs. “It’s not necessary, but if you want to...”

Martin closes the door. He’d rather not have Tim and Sasha hear the inevitable upbraiding.

Jon’s at least kind enough to wait to speak until Martin’s sitting on the other side of the desk. That doesn’t do anything to _help_ , of course, but it’s a nice gesture.

“I wanted to go over what your plans were for the day,” Jon says, idly tapping his capped pen against the desk, which is not as bad as Martin was expecting, but not by a whole lot.

“Why?” Thankfully, Martin does not squeak his question. Barely, but he doesn’t. Even though his hands are shaking and he’s _this close_ to vibrating anxiously in his seat, Martin’s voice doesn’t turn to a squeak.

“Because in January, when we would do this in the morning –”

When Martin would trap Jon in his lap and Jon would awkwardly point at lines he wanted Martin to follow up on.

“—that generally led to a more productive day.”

Martin’s ears begin to burn. “You could just say I’m not doing anything right,” he snaps before he can think better of it.

And then he truly _does_ think better of it when he sees Jon wince slightly, sees Jon’s face twist into a grimace.

“You’re doing as well as you can, considering that you haven’t been trained,” Jon says slowly, carefully. “And as your superior, it’s my responsibility to ensure that any gaps in your knowledge are filled.”

Well, Jon’s response definitely could have been worse.

“I’d like to go over what your plans are for the day, and offer suggestions,” Jon finishes. “If that’s alright?”

“...Yeah.” Martin sighs, opens his laptop, gives up on any hope of not dying in this very office. “I – yeah. Yeah, sure.”

//

“Bet you a beer he comes out red as a tomato,” Sasha says, ten minutes after Martin’s vanished into Jon’s office, long past the point where Tim expects Martin to emerge with dignity and functionality intact.

“Mm, I’m going with white as a sheet,” Tim replies. “And unresponsive for five minutes after.”

“Deal.”

//

“And what do you think about the Carlos Vittery statement?” Jon asks, and there’s – his voice sounds _odd_.

“I think he should’ve captured the spider and put it outside,” Martin says immediately, without thinking. Not in the usual way his knee-jerk statements come out; no, there’s still the rush of horror and worry, but no shame. It feels like it was pulled out as easily as Martin rips out his knitting – practically no resistance, like he didn’t _want_ to resist.

Jon blinks in surprise. Martin’s ears begin to burn again.

“Sorry,” Martin mumbles, hands twitching. God, he wishes he has his knitting. Something to do with his hands.

“I – well, I hate spiders, so I’m not going to comment,” Jon says slowly, “but that is a fair assessment, I suppose. Though it does seem like that would be an invasive species, considering the description. But what do you think about the kind of follow up that should be done?”

There’s none of the tugging sensation in his chest this time, none of the odd quality to Jon’s voice, none of the instinctual and blatantly honest response said without hesitation or true regret. “Check with his neighbors,” Martin says, and Jon nods.

“And do you think it would be best to do this in person?” he prompts.

“Well, yeah.” Martin shrugs. “It – well, it’s not like we can find him in a phone book, probably.”

Jon nods. “Good. Would you mind doing that?”

Martin doesn’t really like doing such work, going after random people, knocking on doors like a salesman, interrupting people’s days.

But it’s not like Martin can just say _no_.

//

“So if neither of us were right,” Tim says, spinning idly in his chair, “does that mean we do the normal rounds tonight?”

Sasha shrugs. “Apparently.”

And then Jon emerges, emerges like a bear from hibernation, though with a significantly more approachable manner than a bear. Probably. 

“Jon!” Sasha grins, and Tim’s life flashes before his eyes. That grin never led to anything good.

But Jon just raises his eyebrows at Sasha, curiosity plain on his face as he turns his whole body to face her.

“Tim and I are going out tonight.”

Tim’s life continues flashing before his eyes, thankfully skipping over events pertaining to circuses and clowns.

“Want to come?”

Jon’s surprised. Mismatched eyes widen and a small crease appears between his eyebrows. In all likelihood, he’ll say no, and Sasha will pout, but things will go on as normal, without Tim’s soul leaving his body.

“…Alright. If you don’t mind?”

“Jon, I am literally inviting you,” Sasha laughs. “I’ll buy the first round.”

_Fuck_.

//

“Come in, Jon.”

The door to Elias’ office is at least well oiled, hinges nigh noiseless as Jon opens the door and walks in. And Elias’ expression is blandly pleasant and expectant, and he waves to the chair in front of his desk with an easy movement. “What can I do for you?”

Jon sits, and finds that the words won’t come. He’s reduced to blinking owlishly at Elias, hands clenching and unclenching as he tries desperately to think of _something_. All that comes to mind is his rudimentary Greek vocabulary and factoids about invasive spider species that he must have read whilst researching the Carlos Vittery statement.

“Jon?” Elias prompts.

It feels like pulling teeth, but Jon finally speaks. “I have questions about the Archivist position,” he says stiffly, finally settling on resting tense hands in his lap.

“Oh? If this is about the, ah, _permanence_ of your position –”

“No.” Jon clears his throat awkwardly. “No, I wanted to ask – well, partly about that, yes. Does – does that permanence extend to my assistants?”

Elias’ face twists with sympathy. “Unfortunately, yes,” he says, and Jon can’t help but feel that the sincerity is utterly fake. “I’m afraid it’s policy to keep that… under wraps, so to speak.”

“Why?” Jon’s voice feels wrong somehow, coming from his mouth in a burst of intensity that is uncomfortably reminiscent of what happened with Martin earlier, with the blond creature last week.

But Elias seems unaffected, not even blinking in response. “Who would take a job that will never let them quit?”

“In this job market?” Jon quips, and Elias’ smile grows just a bit.

“Of course, but imagine how it was a few decades ago. People dislike being stagnant, after all.” Elias shakes his head, seemingly put upon, dismayed – almost regretful. “Of course, I apologize for not warning you. But I imagine it’s all working out, yes? And your feet seem to be healing quite nicely.”

They are, but that’s not what Jon’s here to ask about, and he can’t quite feel guilty for ignoring that particular question.

“I also wanted to ask about... well, questions.”

Elias raises an eyebrow.

“I’ve noticed that, on some occasions, people seem rather incapable of staying silent,” Jon begins, more than a tad stiffly.

“People often are, when talking about the experiences that bring them here.”

“No. Other questions, irrelevant things. They give answers they don’t _mean_ to give, like they can’t stop themselves from speaking.”

Understanding dawns upon Elias’ face. It is not comforting.

“Yes, that is something that Archivists often are capable of,” Elias says. “It’s rather convenient, don’t you think? Better to have people easily give their statements than have them stammer their way through meaningless anecdotes.”

It’s rather _invasive_ , Jon thinks, but he doesn’t bother saying that. No, he just stands, brushing out the creases in his trousers where he’d anxiously clutched at them. “Thank you,” Jon says stiffly. “That’s all.”

Elias’ smile is genuine now. It’s not an improvement. “Of course, Jon. Feel free to bring other questions, should they arrive. And I do appreciate that you’re dressing more… appropriately, for the workplace.”

//

Understandably, one person having a sudden and irrational bout of arachnophobia is something that most people would ignore.

Unfortunately, one person having a sudden and irrational bout of arachnophobia is something that most people ignore.

Also, there’s the fact that Martin had to break into the building to even get confirmation that Carlos had lived in the flat listed. Probably not the _worst_ thing he’s done – he still feels guilty about reducing a young missionary to tears after he pretended to not speak English, and then had to awkwardly tell the man to shove off when said missionary proved he spoke Polish, but was _clearly_ not a native speaker because Martin’s frankness reduced him to tears – but definitely high on the list of the shadiest things he’s done. A list that includes lying on his CV.

But, well. He’s already broken into the basement once. And maybe the spider webs could mean something to Jon.

//

“Steel-toed boots,” Sasha insists, voice remarkably steady for someone who’s gone through multiple drinks already. “Solves all your problems.”

Jon exchanges a dry look with Tim. “Sasha, my boots are fine.”

“Your boots are going to fall apart within a year,” Sasha continues, and Jon’s not sure if she’s ignoring him or simply hadn’t processed what he said. “I’ve had mine since before uni, and look at them!”

Admittedly, her boots are in remarkable shape. But –

“And how much did you spend on them?”

“They’re an _investment_.”

Jon exchanges another look with Tim, and resists the urge to bury his face in his hands.

“I hardly have socks thick enough to weather that kind of boot,” Jon tries.

“Easy! Ask Martin.” Sasha shrugs. “He’ll have you a pair of thick socks in no time. Or gran!”

“Just wait,” Tim advises. “She’ll get over it, and won’t remember it tomorrow.”

“And you can order them online!”

Jon twists and buries his face in Tim’s arm, and Sasha _cackles_ as Tim’s other hand comes around to pat Jon’s head in consolation.

“Solves _all_ your problems!”

If Jon had to guess, he’d say that Sasha’s expression is incredibly self-satisfied and smug. But a guess is all that Jon has, because he refuses to grace her with eye contact again.

“And it’s so much easier to kick someone’s teeth in!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> worms :)


	45. Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bed is shared. 
> 
> Jon and Tim have a conversation. 
> 
> Sasha has a bit of an accident with her hair. 
> 
> Martin is cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just realized that i set this in the middle of winter so Yikes(TM)
> 
> edited to fix a typo and add the chapter title because i am Forgetful

Jon’s a warm and comforting weight in Tim’s arms when Tim awakes to early morning sun in his eyes because his window blinds are chronically broken.

Well, part comforting and part terrifying, Tim supposes – but Jon’s sprawled over Tim’s chest, face buried in the side of Tim’s neck, legs tangled with Tim’s. And Tim can’t figure out how to get up without waking Jon.

So he doesn’t try to get up, escape Jon’s hug. All he does is settle into the mattress, and carefully bring a hand up to stroke Jon’s hair.

And Jon snuffles quietly, presses closer still, and Tim can’t help but smile.

This will be awful in a few hours, Tim’s certain, but right now it’s just adorable.

//

“I could have taken the couch,” Jon says, crossing his arms and frowning at the wall just beyond Tim’s head.

“Awful couch,” Tim rebuts, “and you didn’t, so.” He shrugs. “Breakfast?”

Jon’s wrapped in a red blanket still, but he quietly makes his way into the small kitchen. “Please.”

Red microfiber blanket, which is doing nothing for Tim’s heart right now. “Eggs sound good?” Tim asks, opening the fridge in order to have _something_ to do that isn’t gawping like a dead fish.

Jon had come home with Tim because he’d missed the train. They’d shared a bed because Jon was cold and Tim’s couch is awful to sleep on.

…Also, Tim thinks they may have watched a movie, but he can’t remember.

“The eggs with peppers were quite good?” Jon says, suddenly right at Tim’s elbow, and Tim starts and all he can see is red –

//

Jon’s reflexes have never been the quickest. Books have always been his preference, books and research and nothing all that physical.

So he’s not quite sure _how_ he manages to duck Tim’s sudden punch, but he does. Tim’s fist ends up directly where Jon’s head had been, but doesn’t hit Jon.

And Jon cannot help but feel that there’s a story to that, a reason beyond simply being surprised, can’t help but feel that there’s something underlying and living and thriving and painful in Tim that Jon wants to _know_.

But he doesn’t ask.

He may not be wearing his glasses yet, but Jon can see the look in Tim’s eyes, the look of panic and shock and other things unrelated to his attempted assault, Jon knows – Knows? – but drive a knife into Jon’s heart nonetheless.

Slowly, Jon slides back a step. Stands up. “If, ah.” He tries to smile, probably without much success. “Sorry, I didn’t realize you. You didn’t like being caught off guard.”

It’s an out. It’s something that Jon would himself greatly appreciate, should he be in Tim’s situation.

It takes a moment for Tim’s expression to break, to turn from the shock-horror-panic to something a bit more normal. It’s a rather fragile and forced smile, but at least it’s something.

“Yeah,” Tim says on a laughing exhale. “Yeah. Sorry, boss. Jon?”

“Tim, I slept on top of you in your bed, I think you can call me Jon,” Jon says on impulse – and then quickly realizes just _what_ he’d said, and fights back the urge to shrink back into the blanket.

But Tim laughs, and it turns his smile a bit more genuine. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s fair, Jon. Mind putting tea on for us? Kettle’s – you know where it is, right?”

Jon hums in response, pulling the blanket a bit tighter around himself and walking to the appropriate cabinet. “How do you like your tea?” Jon remembers Tim saying black and strong with enough honey to change the color, but Martin always makes Tim’s tea milky and sweet, and Jon remembers Angela complaining about cheap floral tea that Tim wasted his money on at a local shop –

“Black, with honey.”

Well, there’s a straight answer, at least.

“Have you.” Tim cuts himself off abruptly, putting eggs and milk and peppers down gently on the counter. “How’ve you been?”

Jon huffs a small laugh. “I think I’ve been better,” he says. “Well. I’ve been waging my own rebellion against Elias, at least.”

There’s tension in Tim’s shoulder, tension that Jon knows is there without looking.

You can only live with somebody so long without knowing what makes them tick, after all. 

“Yeah, I noticed that. Linkin Park, huh?”

“Mm.”

“And Hozier?”

“I like his music.”

Tim laughs, and there’s a thread of genuine mirth now. Progress. “Think you’ll need more shirts if you want to annoy Elias until Sasha’s skirt comes in.”

“I have access to a laundromat,” Jon protests, grabbing mugs and tea in one hand with a move that partially dislocates little finger and thumb both, and setting the full kettle on the stove.

“Come on, Jon, let’s go thrifting in search of obnoxious shirts. Intensify the rebellion!”

Jon shakes his head. “Tim, really. We may not be able to be fired, but –”

The tension is back, and Jon kicks himself internally.

“Elias confirmed that? All of us?”

“…I’m sorry. I think it may be Artefact Storage, too, but I can’t say.”

“Why do you think that?”

Jon opens his mouth. Closes it. He just – _does._ “I don’t know,” is what he finally settles on. “If – well, if Jonah Magnus –”

“Jack Magnet.”

Jon blinks at the slowly heating kettle. “What?”

“Jack Magnet, our illustrious founder.”

“…If Jack Magnet went to the effort of keeping the Archival staff, then why wouldn’t he do the same to Artefact Storage? Their work is more dangerous than ours, by far.”

“Yeah, but Sasha managed to transfer,” Tim points out, gently elbowing Jon out of the way with skillet in hand.

“She transferred internally,” Jon argues. “I – I don’t know, Tim. I could ask him on Monday, I suppose.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jon sees Tim grimace.

“He actually answers your questions?”

“I –” Jon sighs. “Most of them. Where do you keep your honey?”

“Right here!”

Jon’s not sure what he was expecting, and he’s not exactly sure why he’s surprised when Tim’s joking tone results in him dramatically hugging Jon and bodily lifting him from the ground. He still squeaks though, squeaks in much the same way as Martin does when surprised.

And Jon’s close enough to see Tim grin widely, the haunted and hunted look finally banished from his eyes.

“Tim.” Jon summons up his most unimpressed expression. “Tim. Where do you keep the edible honey that you put in tea?”

Tim sighs, and puts Jon down. “Cupboard by the fridge.”

“Thank you.”

//

Tim’s parents had always been a bit traditional.

Not in the, “gay people are a scourge upon the earth and Christianity is the only thing that will save humanity and also bring back the empire in all its glory” but in the way that saw his mother teaching both him and Danny how to read people, how to pick up on small cues, how to know when to push and when to back off and when people are lying to make them comfortable.

That’s what makes Tim ask, after he and Jon have sat down with tea and breakfast.

“You sure you’re doing okay?”

Jon doesn’t reply for a long, damning moment. He doesn’t reply with an answer, either.

“Are you?”

And Tim finds that he _wants_ to answer, wants to answer truthfully with a desperate intensity rising up in his chest, a want that he can’t bring himself to fight off.

“It’s weird as fuck,” Tim says honestly, gesturing with his thankfully empty fork. “Not just the whole cat thing. But that you’re being so _nice_ and _guilty_ about it, you know? Like, we were the ones carting you around. Yeah, you cuddles and snuggled to no end –”

Jon flinches slightly, but Tim finds that he can’t stop talking.

“—but that was still us initiating it. Well, apart from when you’d steal my food.” He laughs once, sharply. “It’s not like we have any experience with this, but the fact that you’re being bloody _nice_ about it is what’s throwing me and Martin.” Tim sighs.

He doesn’t want to talk anymore. That desire to explain is gone, the ease with which he spoke is gone, and he just feels tired. “Throwing me,” Tim corrects. “Martin’s just a disaster by default.”

Jon’s stared at him the entire time, and Tim’s willing to swear that he hasn’t blinked the entire time.

And then it’s quiet.

Tim goes back to eating food that he now can’t taste, and Jon continues staring.

“I’m sorry.”

Tim bites back a harsh laugh. “Yeah, that’s what’s fucking me up.” He pops the last bite into his mouth, drains his tea in one go. “I’m tired,” Tim announces. “You have anything to do today? Because I’m going back to bed, and you’re warm.”

Finally, _finally_ , Jon blinks at Tim. Slow and hesitant, but Jon finally blinks.

“…I wouldn’t complain.”

//

_Are you still alive?_

Jon stares blearily at the timestamp – four hours ago, from Sasha. Sent mid-morning, which is… rather out of character. Though she drank quite a lot.

_Yes. Why?_

_Help_.

The picture Sasha sends is of a snarled mess of… what Jon thinks is an attempted French braid, but he honestly can’t tell.

_What did you do?_

_YouTube lied._

Jon bites back a small laugh. _Your hair’s getting long,_ he replies.

_Jon that’s not helping_

_Did Angela finally get through to you?_

_V e r s a t i l i t y, Jon_

Jon sighs. _Oil of some kind,_ he sends. _Start at the ends, and use a mirror_.

//

The knocking hasn’t ended.

Oh, there are short breaks between bursts, but the knocking hasn’t truly ended. And it’s _cold_ , bitterly cold in Martin’s apartment, cold enough that his hands shake and all the blankets and quilts and jumpers and cardigans and socks – all the woolens he’s knit only do so much.

He’s not sure if it’s the cold making him shake or the stress and fear.

And the knocking doesn’t end. And he doesn’t have his _phone_ , and his power’s cut – though it’s not like he has a landline, but he could at least email for help. Probably.

Jane knocks again. And Martin pulls a cowl up to cover his nose and ears, draws his knees up to his chest.

He’s cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> important announcement:  
> sasha's not dying, ok  
> no idea what the fuck will happen with not!them, but it's not taking sasha. not when i've gone to this much trouble to develop the relationship ok, jon needs his vaguely functional sister
> 
> also look when i say that jon and tim shared a bed i mean that in the most literal sense. there was only one bed. cuddles happened and nothing else


	46. Monday and onwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha's skirt arrives. 
> 
> Jon is profoundly out of character and completely finishes a given series of media. 
> 
> Muffins are brought. 
> 
> Also, worms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off. guess what! i wrote this twice! because my computer is a piece of shit and decided to update after i went to bed without me telling it to! so it shut down! 
> 
> and secondly, each section with Worms signifies a new day

“Jon?”

Jon hums vaguely in response, not looking up from… whatever he’s managing to do with a desk as messy as his presently is. Really, there’s no way Jon can justify insulting Gertrude’s organization while keeping his desk like _that_.

“Jon,” Tim repeats, knocking sharply on the doorframe.

This makes Jon look up, eyebrows raised and expression expectant. “Yes?”

“You heard from Martin today? He’s still not in.”

“Oh, right.” Jon sticks his pen behind his ear. “Yes, Martin’s out sick. He texted me this morning.”

Tim hums. “Did he get you the work on the Vittery statement?”

“…No, I’m afraid not, and I’m not going to ask him to work while he’s sick. Here, Olive Peterson’s statement –” Jon takes a file from the bottom of one haphazard stack, holds it out to Tim. “Simple enough, ought to get a referral to a good therapist. But if you don’t mind looking into it?”

The file is actually Olive Peterson’s statement, to Tim’s surprise. “On it, boss.”

//

Martin’s hands are shaking too badly to knit.

Not like he could stomach any of his current projects, taint them with the memory of this entire mess, but he’s not used to sitting idle.

His hands are shaking too badly to knit, and he can’t focus enough to work on designing cable patterns, and he thinks his swatch may have actually frozen.

The knocking comes again.

Martin should’ve invested in earplugs at some point. They wouldn’t do anything, of course, not when Martin _knows_ that Jane’s outside his door, but they could at least dampen the noise of the _worms_.

//

“Martin still sick?” Sasha asks, breezing past Tim and flopping onto the armchair – and onto Jon, who was presently occupying said armchair.

Jon grunts at the impact, scowls at her innocent expression. “Yes, he’s still sick. Is there something you need?”

“Yeah, my hair’s a mess.”

Jon sighs, poking Sasha in the side of the head. “Well, get off, I can’t do anything like this.”

Sasha grins up at him, and rolls off the armchair, hitting the ground knee-first with a slight wince.

“You deserve that,” Jon says flatly, pulling the hairtie out of Sasha’s hair. “I – how many hairpins do you _have_ in here?”

“Clearly not enough,” Sasha retorts, pulling out her phone. “Hey, is it my turn to show you podcasts?”

Jon groans – though his fingers don’t stop, easily combing out her hair and setting to work on what Sasha thinks is a complicated braid. “Is there any way for me to stop you?” he asks, voice slightly resigned.

“Nope!”

“Not unless you want me to restart the Pen Wars,” Tim offers, and Jon groans again.

//

Martin thinks that canned food can contain botulism. Canned food and honey.

He doesn’t have honey, but he does have canned peaches.

Botulism, Martin’s beginning to think, would be preferable to this.

//

“My skirt came in!” Sasha announces, spinning in a pencil skirt that definitely does not twirl with her momentum.

“Are we doing the rebellion tomorrow, then?” Jon asks, pausing on his way back to his office, barefoot and clutching a mug of tea.

“We should probably wait for Martin,” Tim points out. “United front and all that.”

//

At least his water wasn’t cut. Granted, it isn’t working all that well, but it’s still vaguely functional.

Dehydration beats worms, but botulism beats dehydration, Martin decides, huddling into his pile of blankets and jumpers and cardigans.

Of course, death by exposure is definitely at the bottom of Martin’s list of “ways to die.”

//

It’s well past eight when Tim’s phone lights up with a call from Jon.

And Jon doesn’t let Tim get a word in edgewise when Tim picks up the call.

“How _dare_ you.”

Admittedly, not a response Tim’s unaccustomed to, but usually he has a vague idea of what he’s _done_ to deserve that.

“…Is this about your pens?” he guesses, turning off the kettle lest it shriek in his ear while he’s talking to Jon.

“My – what did you do to my pens?”

“Not about the pens, then.”

“Tim, what did you do to my pens?” Jon demands, and Tim’s rather certain he can hear Jon spinning slowly in his office chair.

“Nothing,” Tim says innocently, and puts the kettle back on. He may need a convenient escape. “So what did I do?”

“I finished the Balance arc.”

“…Okay, that’s fair.”

“ _Tim._ ”

“Yeah, that’s completely fair.”

The kettle shrieks.

Tim doesn’t use it as an excuse to get out of the conversation.

“So, I bought ice cream the other day,” Tim says, grabbing the box of tea.

“Are you inviting me over?” And oh, the difference is like night and day, and as much as Tim would like to say that he _didn’t_ get whiplash, that would be an utter lie.

“’Course. Emerge from your spooky workplace that will never let you quit, and let’s talk podcast plot!”

//

“Mihaela says hello.”

Martin pulls a blanket over his head, then thinks better of it.

“So does Jadwiga. That’s what _witaj_ means, isn’t it?”

…Blanket it is.

//

“So what do we do if Martin’s still sick by his birthday?” Tim asks. He and Sasha are at their desks, and Jon is dealing with what Tim choses to think is a normal headache, and is probably a scary eldritch induced pain that Tim doesn’t want to think about. Regardless, there’s a towel-wrapped heating pack on Jon’s neck and a pillow clutched over his face.

“Belated party?” Sasha offers. “Jon, do you have anything?”

“Any what?”

“Birthday present for our Polish gay disaster.”

Jon moves the pillow enough to glare at Sasha with his yellow eye.

“It’s accurate,” Tim points out.

“Let’s take him out for ice cream,” Jon says, and replaces the pillow.

//

_Knock._

_Knock._

_Knock._

//

“Okay, who brought _muffins_?”

Sasha grins, tearing off another piece to cram into her mouth. “Don’t know,” she manages through a mouthful, “but it’s my gran’s recipe.”

“Is Jon being nice? Or apologizing for whatever hell he's going to assign us this fine week?” Tim wonders, taking a bite of a muffin of his own. His eyebrows shoot up – alright, he’s never actually seen Jon cook, but where did he learn _this_?

“…The recipe makes over a dozen,” Jon says quietly, stirring his instant coffee.

“Gran gave you her muffin recipe?”

“Why do you – she –” Jon sighs, and promptly chugs half the coffee in one go. “She’s not that draconic about keeping people out of her kitchen.”

“Uh-huh.” Sasha swallows. “I’m so sure. Is that her instant coffee?”

Jon grimaces. “God no.”

“Good, that stuff reeks for _days_. Contaminates the entire place.”

//

The knocking hasn’t started.

It’s midday, warm enough for Martin to shuck most of his jumpers and all the blankets, though not his coat, and the knocking stopped.

The sound of the worms has stopped.

Hesitantly, Martin peers through the peephole in his door.

There’s nobody there. A few dead worms, but nobody there.

…It’s worth a shot.

//

“…but I recall the name ‘Simon Fairchild’ was one of the ones used by –”

The door to Jon’s office bursts open, thrown open with enough force to bounce off the opposite wall and Jon is _sure_ that the paint is now scuffed and that will be awful to explain, and he stands on reflex, hands slamming down on his desk as his face turns to an expression of sharp irritation.

But it’s Martin standing in the doorway, cheeks red.

He does not look like he’s recovered from a stomach bug or parasite.

He looks like he’s gone through hell of another kind, something that left him pallid and wan under his freckles and flushed cheeks, and he… does not smell the best.

“My god! _Martin?_ ”

Martin smiles weakly. “I, ah – I think I’d like to make a statement?”

//

Jon turns off the tape recorder, and looks at Martin. Takes time to actually look, pay attention in a way that he couldn’t while Martin was talking.

Martin’s eyes are sunken like he hasn’t slept in days – unsurprising, since he really _hadn’t_. His lips are chapped, his hair is rather greasy, and his clothes are thoroughly rumpled.

Martin swallows, and doesn’t meet Jon’s eyes. “Do you – do you believe me? Is this when you stare at me and tear the entire story apart in front of me?”

Jon sighs. “I – no, Martin. I’m hardly in a position to do that anymore, after all.” He gestures vaguely at his eyes. “I’m sorry. Are you – well, you’re not alright. But you’re sure she’s gone?”

Martin shrugs.

“Well.” Jon purses his lips. “There’s a room here in the Archives, climate controlled, with a cot. And of course, there are showers here – if you wish, you can take full advantage of this and stay here until you feel safe enough to return to living in your flat?”

Martin looks… hesitant? Shocked? Jon’s not sure. He can’t tell much, beyond the fact that Martin looks _exhausted_.

“Or,” Jon offers, voice slow and quiet, “I would not be opposed to hosting you myself for however long this will last. My flat is small, but I don’t mind.”

Martin stares blankly.

Jon shifts in his seat. “Regardless,” he continues, resisting the urge to tug slightly on his braid or pick at his nails, “do you feel comfortable going back and collecting a few things? I imagine you’ll want clothes regardless.” He smiles slightly. “And I don’t think you have any knitting with you at the moment.”

//

Martin’s clothes and toiletries fit neatly in his battered suitcase, but he’s left staring at the basket of knitting. Swatches and jumpers and all sorts of socks and hats and cowls and shawls and – and –

“Do you have a box?” Jon asks, suddenly at Martin’s elbow. “I imagine yarn can compress. You could take a variety.”

Martin stares at the basket a moment longer.

“…Yeah, I have some boxes left.”

And Jon’s patient as Martin bags up projects and carefully sorts them into “take” and “leave” piles – can’t pick whatever, not when he doesn’t know how long this will be, after all.

“Have you thought about where you’d prefer to stay?” Jon’s voice is carefully neutral, and Martin freezes in the middle of tucking hanks of sock yarn into the box.

Martin stares at the box for a moment. “I’d rather not be alone? If that’s still okay?”

The hum Jon makes is… comforting? Maybe? It’s not a direct rejection, at least.

“Of course. I wouldn’t have offered otherwise.”

//

Jon gets another text, when he’s sitting in his flat listening to the water running for Martin’s shower. It’s… humorously transparent in its attempt to be threatening, but worrying nonetheless. He’ll have to talk to Elias.

His sheets are clean, and he has plenty of blankets. And it’s not like Martin will fit comfortably on Jon’s couch, so.

Jon’s hands are shaking, though. And he swears he can hear knocking, though of course there’s nobody around. Nobody at his door. And none of his neighbors are home.

He sends an email to Elias, texts Sasha and Tim to let them know what happened to Martin, tell them to take the rest of the day off.

Jon’s tired, and his eyes hurt, and he can’t help but think about the last week.

Now would be a convenient time for his brain to spew out some random bit of trivia that he probably learned while researching one statement or another.

It doesn’t, of course.

Why would it?

//

Martin does not fit comfortably on Jon’s sofa. His feet hang over one armrest, and even then he’s still scrunched in.

Somehow, that did not stop Martin from falling asleep, thoroughly trapping Jon in place by having his head in Jon’s lap, since apparently Martin likes his hair being played with and that’s something simple enough, minor enough, for Jon to do for him.

At least Jon had already brought out the blankets he was going to use tonight, because he clearly is going _nowhere_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah i wanted to end this chapter on the "knock. knock. knock." bit but i couldn't figure out how to manage that, so. you're welcome. 
> 
> so to clarify about the time skips: tim judging the state of jon's desk happens on monday, sasha demanding help with her hair happens on tuesday, sasha's skirt comes in on wednesday, jon finishes taz on thursday, jon's migraine happens on friday, and then both muffins and escape happen the next monday


	47. Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inevitable interpersonal fallout of discovering your coworker has been held siege occurs. 
> 
> Sasha meddles. 
> 
> There's only one bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _there's only one bed_
> 
> edited three minutes after posting because i forgot the damn chapter title

Martin’s hair is not the softest.

Jon may be a bit spoiled, granted, considering how much conditioner Sasha must use and how much conditioner he himself uses, but Martin’s hair is a bit coarse. It’s a pretty russet brown and curly to boot, but a bit coarse.

Jon stills pets it, though, running his hands through Martin’s curls and separating them into a fluffy mess and then carefully twisting the curls back together again, digging his short nails into Martin’s scalp, idly twisting curls around his fingers and watching them fall back into place.

It’s early, early enough that it’s still dark out, and Jon probably ought to get up and get breakfast started, shower and deal with his hair, but he doesn’t. Because Martin has not slept peacefully through the night, face twisting with bad dreams, and Jon doesn’t have the heart to wake him. Not yet.

Though Martin’s neck and back will absolutely be sore, after he wakes up.

//

Martin wakes warm and content and stiff and sore, knees and ankles aching and neck throbbing. He groans, face twisting into a grimace at the painful mess his body presently is, and presses his face closer into the warmth he's laying on.

Someone has their fingers in his hair, gently scratching his scalp, toying with his hair in a way that hasn't happened since he was very little. And so Martin screws his eyes shut, pushes his face yet further into the lap presently serving as his pillow, and doesn't say anything.

He's bleary and tired still, the kind of tired where his eyes won't stop straining to focus on something despite closed eyelids, the kind of bleary that makes everything vague and fuzzy, and Martin would very much like to go back to sleep.

"Are you awake, Martin?"

Suddenly, Martin is indeed quite awake. Uncomfortably so. He would very much rather not be as such, but that’s a bit out of the question.

“Martin?” Jon repeats, voice quiet and soft and lilting upwards on the question. And he hasn’t taken his hand out of Martin’s hair. “Martin, are you awake?”

Martin sighs, and opens his eyes.

They are still on the couch.

So evidently, Martin’s escaped the dreadful “I insist on you taking the bed” conversation that’s sure to happen. By trapping Jon on the couch with him overnight.

Not exactly an improvement.

“Good morning,” Jon says, a bit awkwardly.

Martin looks up at him. Jon still looks tired and haggard, eyes somewhat sunken though not bloodshot. “Morning,” Martin finally says, once the silence has dragged on to a point of being slightly awkward, once Martin realizes that he’s been drinking in Jon’s appearance like somebody in a bad novel, once –

Once something else, but Martin can’t think of it.

“If, ah.” Jon shifts and oh, right Martin has his head in Jon’s lap. “If you don’t mind getting up? I’ll start on breakfast if you want to shower first. Or - I’ll be as quiet as I can, if you don’t want to get up yet? It’s early for you, I think.”

Martin groans, and sits up. “What time is it?”

“Five.”

Martin lays back down, realizes where his head has returned to, sits back up, and tries to pretend he isn’t starting blush at Jon’s bemused expression. “I’ll - I’ll get ready,” Martin says, twisting and stretching and flinching at the violent crack that his back makes. “Or I could put on the kettle?”

But Jon’s standing, shakes his head, and oh his braid is _quite_ messy and that’s very unfair.

“You – you get ready,” Jon insists. “I’ll start on breakfast. Ah, do eggs sound good? I’m afraid I’m… running a bit low on food. Put off grocery shopping.” He shrugs awkwardly.

Martin blinks at him. “You cook?”

Jon’s awkward expression turns to flat irritation, and Martin cringes. “Martin, please. I – just because I _didn’t_ doesn’t mean I _can’t_.”

“…Right. Right, sorry. Yeah, eggs sound good? Thanks.” Martin glances around the room, locates his bag, and takes advantage of Jon ceding the bathroom to him to unashamedly flee the situation.

//

“You can stay here,” Jon repeats. “I have a spare key I don’t mind leaving with you.”

Martin stares at the dregs of his tea, hands fidgeting and leg twitching nervously. “I don’t mind going in early,” he says, looking up and giving Jon a smile.

Jon does not look convinced.

“No, really. Get – get started on things, yeah? Or finish the sock in my desk.”

“…You finished the heel turn, then?”

Martin grimaces at the reminder. “Yeah. Dropped a stitch, had to rip back the entire thing, but I made progress on it.”

“I’m sorry?”

Martin huffs a small laugh. “Not your fault, Jon. Just – you know. Annoying. And I want to finish it so I can put it away and never think about it again.”

That draws a small smile onto Jon’s face, one that crinkles his face into gentle laughter lines and make his eyes glint in a bright, pleasant way. “That bad?”

“And I liked the yarn, too.” Martin sighs, turning his gaze away from Jon’s smile and back to the remnants of his tea. “But yeah. I don’t mind going in early.”

He’d rather not be alone.

//

“Do your feet still hurt?” Martin asks, frowning as Jon shucks shoes and coat. “You should probably get the blisters looked at.”

Jon blinks owlishly at Martin. “…No? I just don’t want to wear shoes. And it’s not like Elias can fire me.”

“Oh.” Martin looks down at the slightly ragged socks on Jon’s feet. “Doesn’t that make your feet cold?”

Jon shrugs. “It’s fine. Ah, I’ll – well, come to my office at eight? I’d like to continue our…” Jon purses his lip. “Training sessions, I guess?”

Martin’s beginning to get used to heart palpitations, he thinks. But he must have nodded, because Jon’s padding away, the barest hint of a limp left in his walk, and Martin’s left standing by the door with his coat half off.

His biscuit stash probably hasn’t been raided, Martin thinks, and it’s not like he’ll be eating chocolate on an empty stomach. It’s an interesting day, and his mother isn’t around to judge him for eating biscuits before seven in the morning.

But when Martin goes into the break room, there’s a small container of muffins with “FREE” written on a piece of paper stuck to the lid.

So he goes with that instead. And they prove to be _very_ good muffins. 

//

“Martin!”

Martin nearly drops his notebook, squeaking in shock as someone is suddenly in his space and hugging him and –

“Hi, Tim,” Martin says, a tad weakly, as he wriggles one arm out from the hug to wrap it around Tim. “Ah. How’re you?”

And then Martin yelps as he’s pulled up, up onto his toes as Tim squeezes him tights and _lifts him into the air_.

“Tim!”

Obligingly, Tim puts Martin down. And when Martin makes eye contact, Tim looks worried.

“Hi,” Martin says, a bit awkwardly, clutching his notebook like a shield to prevent Tim from picking him up again. “How’re you?”

“ _Martin_.” Tim sighs, drags his hand down his face. “Martin, are you okay?”

“Yeah, Tim, I’m –”

Tim raises his eyebrows at Martin, and now that Martin’s looking, there’s more than a hint of guilt in Tim’s eyes.

“Look, it’s not like you could’ve _known_ ,” Martin insists. “She took my phone, and – you know.” He shrugs. “No harm done.”

Tim’s gaze turns flat.

“No harm done by you,” Martin corrects.

“Still.” Tim sighs. “I’m sorry for not – not checking in on you, or something. Do you –?”

“If I need anything, I’ll let you know,” Martin promises.

“So. Do you need a place to stay, or…?”

“I’m, uh.” Martin’s ears begin to burn. “I’m actually staying with Jon.”

Tim’s face lights up, and Martin begins to feel a fear that Jane could never hope to instill in anyone.

//

“I brought you hot chocolate,” Sasha says, in lieu of bodily picking him up like a toddler as Tim had done, and Martin smiles gratefully. “Good to see you back.”

“Thanks, Sasha,” he says quietly, taking the cup from her. “How much do I owe you?”

But Sasha just shakes her head, and is already halfway to her desk before Martin can even reach for his wallet.

“Welcome back present,” is all she says. “Don’t even try.”

//

“I hear Martin’s staying with you,” Sasha says idly, putting a muffin down in front of Jon and hopping up to perch on one of the few clear spaces on his desk.

“Get off.”

“No.”

“Sasha,” Jon says warningly, glaring at her.

“Jon,” Sasha mocks. “Come on, I feel justified. How long?”

“How long what?”

“Jon.” Sasha turns her gaze to the ceiling in despair. “Look, just answer me this. Do you have an inflatable mattress?”

Jon doesn’t answer, and Sasha resists the urge to cackle.

//

“Jon?” Martin knocks gently on the doorframe, raising his eyebrows as Jon looks up. “Are you ready to go?”

“What? Oh.” Jon shakes his head, and the pen keeping his hair back promptly gave up on its mission and fell, leaving Jon glowering at nothing as his hair collapsed around his shoulders in a mess – a glower that he turns on Martin when Martin tries and fails to stifle a laugh. “I’m glad one of us finds this funny,” he mutters, tucking strands behind his ears and leaning down to grab the pen. “Just head home without me,” Jon says as he sits back up, wincing slightly. “I’ll be home soon.”

“Jon, it’s eight.”

“Is it?” Jon frowns. “No, it’s just –” He looks at his phone, and falls silent. “Oh.”

“Yeah. So, are you ready to go?”

“…Yes, of course. Just let me get my shoes.”

//

“You’re too tall for the couch.”

“Jon.”

Jon stares resolutely ahead, pointedly not turning to look at Martin as he hands over a washed bowl to put away.

“Jon, really, it’s no trouble.”

“Martin, you’re still favoring your back,” Jon argues, plunging his hands back into heavily steaming dishwater and pulling out a spoon to scrub. “And that’s from one night.”

“What, is your bed much bigger?” Martin asks dryly.

“My bed is of a normal size,” Jon insists, “and I have spare sheets you can use.”

“Jon, I’m not stealing your bed.”

“It’s not theft if I’m giving it to you.”

“Jon, you’re letting me live with you!”

Jon turns to look at Martin, expression thoroughly unimpressed.

Martin presses on. “I’m not going to kick you out of your bed just because I’m a bit tall!”

“You’re not _a bit tall_ –”

“So what if it’s a tight fit? It’s a lot better than what I’d have otherwise!”

“Martin, please.” And then Jon’s face is softening, gaze gentling, and Martin looks at the leftover dirty dishes to avoid caving immediately. “Martin, please.”

“I’m not kicking you out of your bed, Jon.”

“Martin…”

“Jon.” Martin schools his features into something appropriately stern (which he may or may not be basing off of his memories of the bishop he knew when he was little), and turns to look at Jon. “Jon, I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

//

In hindsight, Jon’s not sure what kind of compromise he expected. But it is what it is, and now he’s curled up next to Martin, and thank god Martin hasn’t commented on the sheer number of blankets Jon put away while Martin was brushing his teeth because that would have been. Less than ideal.

“What time do you usually get up?” Martin asks, scrolling through his twelve alarms and turning off half of them. “Was today normal?”

“Yes,” Jon says, drawing the blankets up to his nose. “Goodnight, Martin.”

“’Night, Jon.”

//

Martin wakes briefly, eyes opening wide as he hears – knocking?

He strains his ears, tightens his grip on the warm pillow in his arms, tenses.

There’s no knocking. There never was.

Martin sighs in relief, and buries his face in the pillow, and drifts back to sleep.

He ought to wash his pillowcase, is the last coherent thought Martin has. Getting a mouthful of hair this easily probably says far too much about the cleanliness of his sheets. 

...He’ll do that tomorrow. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's! only! one! bed! 
> 
> comin up next tho: timeskip. plot. @me rip in pieces because i still haven't decided on how michael's shenanigans are gonna go
> 
> also guys i promise jane's not actually at jon's apartment, there's no worm siege 2 electric boogaloo set up in this chapter, martin was just dreaming


	48. Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The question of the pens is answered. 
> 
> Angela is discussed. 
> 
> Revolt is planned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys remember when i went "hey i'm gonna bring in the spooky flesh witch serial killer to be sasha's grandmother, bc that'll be funny"?   
> well  
> yeah
> 
> also statement headcanon incoming i guess

Martin is not unused to regretting decisions.

Happens quite often. Casting on without swatching, for instance. Buying different varieties of tea when he runs out of his favorite. Not calling his mum. (Calling his mum.) Talking to the women at the yarn shop about his coworkers. Asking his babcia about something right before he needs to end the call, and talking to her for another half hour so she can finish her anecdote.

Waking up curled around Jon like a koala falls under a completely different category of “decisions to regret,” however. The alarms haven’t even gone off yet, and all Martin can assume the reason he’s awake is that God is either dead or He hates Martin specifically, and is doing His best to ensure He talks to Martin quite soon. Because that is the only way to explain why he’s woken up before the alarms, before Jon, and is now dealing with the existential crisis of not only sharing a bed with Jon (bad enough for his heart in manners both metaphorical and literal), but also having to deal with the existential crisis of _Jon also holding him_.

Well, Jon’s got his hands clenched in Martin’s shirt, which is pretty much the same thing.

So Martin does the only practical thing.

He pointedly relaxes, evens out his breathing (somehow), and pretends to be asleep. Let Jon deal with this, when he wakes up.

//

Jon wakes with a familiar weight slung across his waist, legs tangled with his and cold toes pressed against his shin, soft and worn cotton clutched in his hands.

Jon wakes unsettled with sore eyes, head throbbing and ears ringing.

Jon wakes jittery and anxious, throat sore and fingertips raw from where he must have bitten them in his sleep.

And he doesn’t move for several long moments, even as the alarms shriek at him from his nightstand. He’d rather not face what this means – not just waking entwined in Martin, but waking feeling… off, in a way he doesn’t quite understand, stressed from dreams he doesn’t quite remember.

He doesn’t like it.

But the alarms don’t quiet, and Martin doesn’t wake, so Jon carefully slides out of Martin’s grasp and clambers over him to grab his phone, finally turn off the alarm.

Shower first, Jon decides. If Martin’s still not awake – well, getting to work at seven instead of six won’t be the end of the world.

//

“Jon? I made tea?”

“…Thank you, Martin. Sleep well?”

“Yeah, actually. Ready to go when you are.”

//

“Tim, what did you do to my pens?” Jon asks, stopping Tim in the doorway.

Martin looks down at his computer and doesn’t say anything.

Sasha takes out her phone, and pulls up the camera.

“Who, me?” Tim asks, features settling into an expression of easy innocence that does absolutely nothing to convince Jon.

“Yes, _you_. You said last week you’d done something with my pens –”

“And you’re just asking now?” Tim raises his eyebrows. “Did TAZ distract you?”

Jon jabs a finger into Tim’s chest. “Don’t change the subject,” he orders. “I have no pens, Tim.”

“You have pens! You have enough pens to have functioned this long!”

“ _Tim._ ”

Tim sighs. “Yeah, I hid your pens in your office. Come on, let me put my stuff down and I’ll find them.”

Sasha turns off her camera, but her grin doesn’t fall. “Martin? Want to watch the comedy?” she asks, turning to face Martin.

“No, I think –” Martin gestures vaguely at his work. “I think I’ll just. Get started, you know?”

//

“When are we actually holding our rebellion?” Tim asks, removing a pen from behind a box and dropping it on Jon’s desk.

“Martin’s back now,” Sasha agrees, watching with unabashed delight as Tim climbs halfway up Jon’s bookcase, pulls out a book, opens it to reveal that it is, in fact, a box, and dumps out eight pens.

“The what?” Jon frowns down at the statement, not quite listening. There’s… well. Bexley and jigsaw puzzles.

“Sock rebellion,” Sasha reminds him, reaching over to lightly hit him on the shoulder. “Keep up. I have a skirt, Tim’s always had socks bright enough for this –”

“I am the canary in the coal mine,” Tim announces, another three shelves up as he moves a dictionary to grasp at yet more pens, “who was the first to notice Elias’ sock-related tyranny.”

“— and Martin told me that he has some, I asked this morning, so – do you?”

“Do I what?” Jon asks absently, fingers idly tapping against the paper.

Sasha reaches out, and yanks the statement away.

“Hey!”

Sasha’s grin is bright and Cheshire-like as she leans out of Jon’s reach, gaze scanning the page. “I’d just about convinced myself I was going to be meeting with a hardened killer,” she begins, voice mockingly deep and menacing, “maybe one that kept a bunch of spooky Halloween crap around, but still someone who’d get the job done.”

“Sasha!” Jon snatches for the page again, but Sasha jumps off the desk and steps out of his reach.

“I wasn’t even put off when we pulled up to a well-kept suburban house in Bexley.” Sasha doesn’t pause, grin still in place as Jon flinches. “But when the door was answered by an old lady in a lilac dressing gown, I almost lost it. McMullen asked if…” Her voice trails off, and Sasha looks over at Jon.

“Well?” Tim asks, climbing down the shelf. “Don’t stop there, what’s going on with Joe Spooky?”

“…McMullen asked if she was Angela.”

Tim stares at Sasha. Sasha stares blankly at nothing. Jon stares at his desk.

“…Angela’s a common name, isn’t it?” Tim asks, going for joking and spectacularly missing the mark. “You know how creative people are with names.”

“The house felt almost as old as its owner – faded floral print wallpaper, dark oak furniture and threadbare carpets.” Sasha doesn’t exactly _want_ to keep reading, but – she kind of does. And that argument, that internal tug-of-war, is ignored. And she keeps reading. “The walls were covered with framed portraits, the sort you’d get in any cheap antique store or charity shop, although as we went into the living room I noticed something that I didn’t expect: they weren’t paintings, they were jigsaw puzzles, each completed and framed.

“And sure enough, when we sat down on the worn cloth sofa, there in front of Angela was another jigsaw, half-finished.”

Even as she speaks, Sasha can see the living room, a dent in the carpet where the spinning wheel usually sat, TV still humming like its just been turned off, family pictures all taken down from the walls, everything bland and forgettable and unremarkable in a way that’s so clearly _fabricated_ to Sasha’s mind’s eye.

“I’ve got no problem with the elderly,” Sasha continues, “and if they want to throw away their last years putting together a damn picture, then I’m sure not going to stop them, but it wasn’t exactly going to kill Noriega, was it?

“I was so angry at this massive waste of my time, that when she offered us a cup of coffee, I almost put McMullen face-first through the glass table in front of us. I grunted something which Angela apparently took as a “yes please”, and so a few minutes later there I was drinking instant coffee –”

Jon stands, yanking the statement away from Sasha, yanking hard as her grip involuntarily tightens and the pages _tear_ , and suddenly her eyes are sore and her throat is sore and her hands are shaking and Sasha very much would like to sit down.

She’s stopped reading. But the tension in the room doesn’t abate. And Sasha’s left with a vaguely hysterical thought that, at least Martin isn’t here, because really this isn’t the kind of thing he needs to deal with after being besieged for a week.

“…Like Tim said,” Jon says quietly, “Angela’s a common name.”

Sasha lets out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. Tim and Jon are staring at her, and she’s staring at the remnant of the statement she’s still clutching, and she can see out of the corner of her eye just how worried Jon and Tim look, how tightly Jon is clutching his part of the torn statement.

Jon swallows, and continues. “Bexley’s a big enough place. And instant coffee is certainly common enough. What am I going to ask you to do, chase down every old woman in Bexley named Angela who buys instant coffee?”

Sasha sighs. Shakes her head. Cracks a smile that’s all too weak. “Yeah. And it’s not like they mentioned a spinning wheel, did they?” She makes a show of glancing down at her part of the statement, as if she could read the fractured sentences. “Probably just some idiot who got intimidated.”

“Yeah,” Tim agrees. “Not worth any attention right now.”

“And now with the thing in pieces, I guess we’ll just have to put it off,” Sasha says, putting said pieces on Jon’s desk. He – he can deal with those better than she can, probably. She left Artefact Storage specifically because she didn’t like this kind of thing, and now it’s _back_ and Sasha can’t quit and really, things are not looking good for her next visit to Bexley.

Which is ridiculous, because Angela’s a common name, and Sasha’s gran has a heavy spinning wheel too big for her to lift and maneuver that the statement giver definitely would’ve seen.

“…I believe we were talking about dress code revolutions?” Jon asks, a bit weakly. “Maybe we should continue that conversation. In the break room. With Martin.”

//

“I mean, yeah,” Martin says, laughing awkwardly as he gestures with the cake of eye-searingly bright yarn in his lap. “Even if I didn’t think to grab any, I’d have a pair in a few days. Almost done with the leg on this one.”

“You finished the other one, then?” Jon asks. “It – you had blue yarn, didn’t you?”

Martin frowns for a moment. When –? Right. “Yeah, yeah. It, uh. Grafted the toe yesterday, now I got this to work on. Between actual work, of course, I’m not just –”

“Martin,” Tim says with a small laugh. “Come on, we’re not yelling at you. Just making sure you have what we need you to have.”

“Say it like that, it sounds like you’re talking about illegal weaponry or something,” Sasha says, shaking her head with a small smile.

“Yeah, the socks that were smuggled in after the import of that dye was banned!” Tim grins. “Seditious dye that spreads lies and disloyalty in the populace, can’t have that!”

Sasha shakes her head again, frowning briefly when a lock of hair sticks to her lipgloss. “Eugh. Anyway. Jon? Socks? Or are we put on hold for you?”

“I –” Jon frowns. “Yes, I think so. I think I bought some.”

“Great!”

“Though…”

Sasha raises an eyebrow at Jon.

“It’s called the dress code, isn’t it?”

There’s silence for a moment as Jon’s words sink in – and then Tim’s face twists into the widest shit-eating grin Jon’s ever seen.

“Think we’ll have time after work to go dress shopping?” he asks, looking from Jon to Sasha to Martin and back again. “Come on. Go all out!”

Sasha cackles, Jon smiles carefully, and even Martin looks a bit amused under his generally anxious expression.

“Won’t take us long,” Tim promises. “Just dress shopping.”

//

Jon glowers down at his bag, scowl etched deeply into his face as he hands Martin the key to the flat.

“Look, I know I took a bit,” Martin says tentatively, holding the door open for Jon to stalk through, “but I just… they really didn’t look good, you know?”

Jon drops his bag with a huff, jerkily removing his scarf and coat. “ _That_ ,” he says bitterly, “is not what I am irritated about.”

“…Still mad about the children’s section?” Martin guesses.

Jon doesn’t dignify that with an answer, just shoves his hands into his cardigan’s pockets and heads directly for the bedroom. “Goodnight,” he says bluntly.

And Martin’s left standing in the doorway, clutching his own bag, still wearing coat and boots and hat. There aren’t any blankets set out on the couch, and Martin’s bag is in Jon’s bedroom, and…

Jon pokes his head out, glances at Martin with a raised eyebrow. “Martin?” he doesn’t look irritated anymore – just regretful, lips turned down in a sad little grimace as he steps out into the hallway. “Martin, I’m sorry. You – your phone charger is still in here, you know?”

They stare at each other for a moment longer before Jon tilts his head in the direction of the doorway and raises his eyebrows. “Are you –?”

That’s as far as Jon can make himself go, but it’s far enough. Martin gets the rest.

And when they finally settle down, Jon doesn’t flinch away when Martin wraps an arm around him, and Martin doesn’t withdraw when Jon curls just a bit closer and rests his head against Martin’s shoulder.

“Goodnight, Martin.”

“Goodnight, Jon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay look you had to know some kind of beholding fuckery was going to come along soon, right
> 
> in which statements act as unskippable cutscenes, short of Something Happening


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha dreams.
> 
> Dresses are described and knives are discussed. 
> 
> Tim talks about recent events, but refuses to discuss emotions. 
> 
> A trip is discussed.
> 
> Jon clings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look as a Knife Gay i can confirm that knives are great and the best part about wearing a long skirt is that you can clip it to your boot and feel like you're in a spy movie. i am absolutely projecting. 
> 
> also martin _canonically_ carries a knife so i feel justified
> 
> edit: cw for dermatillomania/skin picking in the first and last sections. summary in the end notes

Sasha dreams of brown paper packages with bold-typed addresses, of butcher shops and thick cuts of meat still oozing in their wax paper wrappings. She dreams of odd accidents and bloody marks, of banging her elbow on a table and seeing the scrape bleed and bleed and bleed until her sleeve is drenched, her shirt is drenched, her trousers well on their way to being the same. She dreams of gnarled hands gently picking up puzzle pieces, of a shop employee offering advice on picture frames. She dreams of washing her hands until the skin cracks, of peeling layer after layer of skin until she sees muscle and tendon and bone and peeling further until she has to use her teeth as her hands fall into the sink in bloody pieces.

She dreams.

And dreams.

And dreams.

//

Tim’s dress is discordantly floral for the season, light and airy under the heavy cardigan he’d bought, in stark contrast with the black shoes that peek out from the hem.

Martin’s is suitably modest, dark brown and wonderfully pretty with the green sweater that Martin loves so much, the small bit of lace at the hem just brushing his ankles.

Sasha hadn’t needed to buy one – her dress is one that she’s had since uni, fitted in the bodice and loose and flowy in the skirt, scoop neck made appropriate by a crew-neck cropped jumper she found on clearance.

Jon’s… Jon is still bitter about having to shop in the children’s section. But his dress is dark blue and goes nicely with his black cardigan, nicely with his black shoes.

Elias has to admit that they have _taste_ , not matter how irritating their little rebellion may be.

He had _thought_ that it would be understood that men wear trousers and women could wear skirts.

Apparently not.

He’d have to speak to Rosie. 

//

“Okay, I’m all for this in concept,” Tim says, “but I have no pockets.”

“You can just put your pocketknife in your shoe,” Martin says immediately – and flushes when all eyes turn to him.

“You have a knife?” Tim can’t help the surprised tone, can’t help it any more than Martin can help his steadily spreading blush.

“On me, yeah.” Martin taps his left thigh, laughs awkwardly. “Just clip it on. It stays in place.”

“I think that works better with boots, though,” Jon points out. “It would – well, I know it would show on myself or Tim, but Sasha –”

“I don’t have a knife,” Sasha says immediately.

“That sounds like something someone who has a knife would say,” Tim retorts without missing a beat. “Jon. Jon, tell me. Am I the only one who doesn’t have a knife?”

“Yes.”

Tim turns his gaze skywards, expression turning theatrically despondent. “Why was I not told we were doing _knives_ , too?”

“Tim, please.”

Tim sighs, and turns his gaze back to Jon. “Where is _your_ knife?”

“I fail to see how that’s pertinent.”

“Pocket,” Sasha guesses. “Since _you_ have pockets.”

“…There is one advantage to the children’s section,” Jon admits grumpily, sticking his hands in said pockets, and Sasha laughs a short, bitter laugh.

“Don’t try to sell you bags until you’ve hit puberty, apparently,” she says dryly.

“Wait.” Tim turns to Martin. “You said you have a knife on you.”

Martin shifts.

“How many knives do you _have_?”

Martin doesn’t say anything.

“Jon?”

“I have three,” Jon says. “They’re useful, Tim.”

“Am I the _only_ one here without a pocketknife?” Tim asks, looking from Jon to Sasha to Martin and back again. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.” Sasha props her foot up on her desk, rucks her skirt up to her knee to show a knife clipped to her boot.

“You have a fucking knife.”

“Tim,” Jon scolds.

“Well, where’s _yours_?” Tim demands. “Sasha and Martin have theirs clipped to their _shoes_ , apparently, where’s yours?”

Jon looks Tim dead in the eye. “I hope you don’t have to find out.”

And Jon turns to Martin, makes a vague gesture to his office, and quietly pads away on stockinged feet.

Tim stares at Martin.

Martin shrugs awkwardly, and follows Jon.

And Tim practically collapses into his office chair, staring ahead with a vaguely betrayed expression.

“Really, Tim,” Sasha says, handing him one of his pens in consolation, “if we’d known you didn’t have a knife, we would have gotten you one. Early birthday present.”

Tim groans, clutching the pen and laying a hand on his chest. “ _Sasha_. Sasha.”

“Tim.”

“Sasha, you have a _knife_.”

“Tim, we’ve been talking about this for five minutes.”

“Sasha, do you have any idea how much easier it would be to open a lock with a knife?”

Sasha raises an eyebrow, tapping absently at her keyboard without looking to wake up her computer. “Do you?”

“…No,” Tim admits, “but it’s got to be easier.”

“Why do you open locks?” Sasha asks, shifting to sit properly with both feet on the ground, twitching her skirt so that the knife didn’t show. “Isn’t it Martin that Jon asks to break into places?”

“It’s the _principle_ of the thing, Sasha,” Tim protests. “Sasha, when did you even _get_ that?”

“My gran gave it to me when I was ten.”

Tim pauses. Then, “Angela?”

“Angela.”

Tim sighs. “So. Angela.”

Sasha turns to fully face her computer. Her concealer isn’t enough to hide the puffiness under her eyes, the white eyeliner on her waterline isn’t enough to hide how bloodshot her eyes are, her stiff posture isn’t enough to hide how she’s resisting the urge to slump and slouch and doze, and Tim can’t say if the messiness of her ponytail is intentional or not.

“How’re you holding up with that?” Tim asks.

“Angela is a perfectly common name,” Sasha says, “and puzzles are a common hobby for older people.”

“And it didn’t mention a spinning wheel,” Tim adds.

“Exactly. And that thing’s _heavy_. And – oh, look, Elias is being passive-aggressive already.” Sasha sighs.

“We have decorum, we’re a respected institute, et cetera et cetera I’m a killjoy who doesn’t know how to have fun?” Tim guesses.

“Without a hint of irony,” Sasha agrees. “Poor Rosie, having to deal with this.”

“How much does he pay her to deal with his bullshit?”

“Not enough,” Sasha says without a hint of doubt. “I guarantee it. Secretaries are never paid enough. This place would collapse without her, but she’s definitely not paid enough.”

Tim scoffs, finally giving up on the keyboard and turning his computer on via power button. “’Course not. Just a secretary, after all. What all could she be doing worth a decent wage?”

“Tim, _we’re_ barely paid a decent wage,” Sasha points out dryly.

“And we’re ‘proper academics,’” Tim says, air quotes and all, “and he –”

“Tim, you worked in a publishing house, I don’t think you can call yourself a proper academic.”

“Next time you need an email proof-read,” Tim retorts, “you do that yourself, you traitor.”

But the beginning of a smile is beginning to show on Sasha’s face, small though it may be, so Tim counts that as a victory.

“So what do you think of Martin staying with Jon?”

Tim doesn’t respond, staring instead at his inbox, where there is indeed an email from Rosie.

“Tim?”

Sasha had returned one of his pens, but that only leaves Tim with… five? Five or six.

“Ti-im,” Sasha mocks, singsong.

It’s probably not worth losing another pen, Tim thinks. Not over this bit of teasing.

“Did I break you?”

…It’s absolutely worth losing another pen. And the sudden attack brings Sasha’s smile out in full force, so Tim counts that as a victory.

Even if it means he loses two more pens.

//

“Jon, you really shouldn’t do that,” Martin says, knocking quietly on the doorframe before walking into Jon’s office.

Jon looks up absently, eyebrows raised. “Hm?”

“Nail biting,” Martin says. “It’s bad for your teeth, you know.”

Jon looks blankly at his hand, at the freshly gnawed fingernails and irritated skin. “…Oh.”

“I hear nail polish helps?” Martin offers, carefully handing over a mug of tea. “There’s clear stuff, if you don’t want colors.”

Jon doesn’t look up from his nails for a moment. Then, “…Yes, you have a point. Bad for your teeth, and slightly disgusting, isn’t it?” He sighs. “I’ll talk to Sasha about nail polish. Don’t want this to get too out of hand.” Not when the fingers on his other hand are throbbing still, an ever-present pain that no amount of cold or warmth has managed to relieve.

//

“ _Tim_ ,” Sasha says, slowly rolling over to his desk with a wide grin on her face. “Martin’s out, and Jon’s recording.”

“And how do you know that?” Tim asks, grabbing the arm of her office chair without looking and bringing her to a halt.

“That’s the only time he closes his door now,” Sasha says. “Tim. Come on.”

“Give me my pens and I’ll consider it.” Tim shoves gently at Sasha’s chair – enough to make the chair spin just slightly and not much else. He also ignores her pout in favor of pointedly picking up one of his three remaining pens to make a note.

“…I’ll give you five,” Sasha says.

“Six.”

Sasha narrows her eyes at Tim.

“Six or I’m not telling you anything.”

Sasha’s eyes narrow just a bit further, but she sighs. “Fine.”

“Pens first.”

“What, you don’t trust me?” Sasha bats her eyelashes at Tim, rolling backwards towards her desk.

“Nope,” Tim says cheerfully. “Worked with you too long to trust you when it comes to pens. I still remember what you did to Nina over the Sharpie.”

“Bitch had it coming,” Sasha says immediately, handing over the pens.

“ _And_ the caps.”

“Demanding, aren’t you?”

“Caps or no gossip.”

Sasha sighs, but hands over the caps. “Alright. Now.” She shifts in her chair, curling her legs under herself and ending up with her feet braced against the arm. “How are you taking Martin and Jon living together?”

Tim groans inarticulately.

“Not good enough to warrant six pens, Tim.”

Tim turns to face Sasha. “Well.” He sighs. “Let’s go over the timeline, yeah?” He holds up a finger. “You, me, and Jon go out for drinks while Martin breaks into a spooky haunted basement.” A second finger. “Martin gets trapped in his flat while Jon and I spend a weekend watching stupid TV and he teaches me how to braid hair.”

“You know how to braid?” Sasha leans forward, eyes wide.

“That’s not what we’re talking about.” A third finger. “Martin is apparently besieged for over a week while we do whatever in the office, and nobody thinks to check on him despite him being sick _for a week_.” A fourth. “You and me are out getting lunch when we get an email from Jon that was, what, three sentences long? At most? Saying _hey, I’m taking the rest of the day off since Martin’s been trapped by Prentiss for a week and he’s staying with me so you lot can take off as well, but if you do, don’t forget to lock up_.” Tim exhales in a huff. “And Martin won’t talk about it, and apparently you all carry _knives_ like some shitty thriller.”

Sasha taps her knee with her little finger. “Tim, I can take you out to get a knife tonight.”

“That is most definitely not my point, Sasha.”

Sasha sighs. “I will give you the rest of your pens if you tell me how you feel about Martin’s _living situation_.”

Tim turns back to his computer. “I can buy new pens.”

Sasha could try and try and try – and she would, Tim has no doubt – but that’s not something he needs to talk about. Not in the office, not to her, and definitely not in a place where Martin or Jon could suddenly appear.

And silence reigns.

Sasha turns back to her computer, Tim focuses on his work, and he swears he can hear the faint noise of Jon recording a statement.

Silence reigns.

Tension reigns, tension brought on by the general feeling of paranoia that Tim so often feels when Jon’s recorder has clicked on and he’s reading aloud the story of someone else’s trauma in a way that so effortlessly encapsulates what they must have felt at the time.

Jon’s been reading a statement practically every day.

Before the Leitner, before the month that changed Jon’s eyes and ruined his composure, Jon could barely manage to read one a _week_ , and even then he was left grouchier and testier than normal.

Tim doesn’t want to think about what made that change.

//

“Angela had mentioned my coming to visit,” Jon says, standing awkwardly by Sasha’s desk as she packs up.

He has his own bag, she notes, as does Martin – is Martin trying to strongarm Jon into a functional work schedule?

“This Saturday,” Jon continues.

Sasha doesn’t pause with her packing. “Yeah, she called yesterday, asked if I wanted to visit,” she says.

“…Do you?”

“Do I what?”

“Do you want to visit?” Jon asks. “I’m hoping to, but. Well.”

Sasha grimaces. “Yeah. Want to meet up at the coffee shop before we go?”

The smile Jon gives her is full of blatant relief and a hint of genuine excitement, crow’s feet crinkling into being and eyes sparkling slightly. “That sounds good,” he agrees. “She said eleven?”

“Then let’s meet up at half past ten.”

//

Martin’s distantly worried that Jon might actually tear holes in his shirt, as tight as Jon’s grip is. White knuckled to a degree that makes Martin’s own hands twinge in sympathy, twisted in Martin’s old shirt and clinging to Martin like a child to their mother, knees pulled in tight and face pressed close. One hand clutched in Martin’s shirt, one pressed to his mouth, jaw working slightly.

He’s biting his nails, Martin notes. Biting his nails, gnawing gently at the tips of his fingers, white teeth seeming ever sharper in the low light.

But Jon’s hand isn’t pressed to his mouth anywhere near as tightly as his grip on Martin’s shirt, so it’s simple enough for Martin to gently pull Jon’s hand away from biting and gnawing and inevitable ripping when Jon’s teeth will catch on callouses and tear skin, perhaps catch again on the newly revealed skin and pull and pull and pull until there’s blood on Jon’s fingertips and sheets and mouth.

It’s simple enough for Martin to gently pull Jon’s hand away.

It’s simple enough for Martin to gently entwine their fingers.

It’s simple enough for Martin to slide his hand into Jon’s hair, and hold him close.

And it’s simple enough for Martin to fall back asleep, warm and content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jon's knife is actually in his bag. he uses it as a letter opener. one time he forgot about it and accidentally gashed his hand open and needed fifteen stitches. he was profoundly grateful that he'd broken up with georgie because she would not let him live that down.  
> melanie shows up later like "hello i am the only Knife Gay here" and martin, jon, and sasha all simultaneously go "lol no you're not" and that's why she takes up poison, because she wants to have a unique form of murder
> 
> summary:   
> -Sasha has nightmares about the piecemeal statement.   
> -the archival staff goes to work in dresses, which prompts Elias to send out a passive aggressive email surrounding dress code.   
> -Tim complains about having no pockets, to which Martin advices how to carry a knife without pockets, and it's revealed that both jon and Sasha also have pocket knives -- sasha was given hers by angela. tim notices that sasha looks exhausted. sasha then asks tim about his opinions in re martin staying with jon, and tim starts throwing pens again.   
> -martin brings jon tea, and finds jon biting his nails in his office, at which point he suggests jon try nail polish.  
> -martin goes out of the archives, and Sasha talks to tim while jon is recording. sasha hands over some of his pens, and he reveals that he's worried about martin and guilty about how long martin was under siege. sasha asks about what he thinks about martin living with jon, but tim refuses to answer. after, he muses about the difference in jon's statement reading and how many jon has been able to read in a short time.   
> -jon talks to sasha about visiting angela, and they decide to go together.  
> -martin wakes up in the middle of the night and sees jon biting his nails in his sleep. he stops jon by virtue of holding jon's hand, and goes back to sleep


	50. Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon gets a new jumper. 
> 
> A Statement is given. 
> 
> An explanation is given as to why Sasha is not traditionally allowed in Angela's kitchen. 
> 
> Tim rants.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> martin can have little a profanity. as a treat  
> note: nail biting is definitely going to continue showing up in further chapters, so be warned

“Do you think she’s going to be offended?” Jon asks, looking at his coffee with a small frown.

“Only if you got black coffee, I think.” Sasha shrugs, stepping in front of Jon as they walk up the path to Angela’s house. “Or tea. What _did_ you get?”

“Espresso.”

Sasha turns, walking backwards with a confidence that vaguely worries Jon. “Jon, that’s a large cup.”

“Yes.”

“And it’s full of espresso?”

“Yes.”

“Jon, that is _literally_ going to kill you.”

“…Yes.”

Sasha shakes her head, turning around just in time to not trip over the stairs up to Angela’s porch.

“To be fair, we _are_ about to talk to your potential serial killer of a grandmother,” Jon points out before he can think better of it.

“Angela is a perfectly common name,” Sasha repeats, and knocks. And Jon pauses, just before the steps, hands clasped around his coffee and eyes locked on the door and not really _seeing_ anything.

Angela has finished the body of the jumper, he’s certain. And she’ll want him to try it on, want his opinion, ask question after question and poke and prod and measure and refuse to take one-word non-answers. She’d mentioned as much on the phone, Jon thinks.

Sasha raises her hand to knock again, and the door opens to reveal Angela, clad in a deep blue skirt and heavy cardigan, hair pulled back into a bun with curls already escaping in a manner quite similar to Sasha’s, whenever Jon attempted braids.

And Angela’s smiling at Sasha, waving her in. “Shoes off,” Angela orders briskly, stepping out of the way. “Jon? Are you just going to stand there?”

Jon blinks rapidly. The cold must be wreaking havoc on Angela’s hands – her knuckles look swollen, even from his distance.

“Jon!” Sasha turns, gives Jon an expression that Jon roughly translates as _don’t you dare leave me_ , and that finally jolts Jon into action.

“Morning, Angela,” he says, climbing the steps and pausing to drag his feet across the welcome mat.

“See?” Angela says, turning to look at Sasha. Sasha rolls her eyes, and lines her boots up with the wall. “Come in, it’s cold out.”

The door closes behind Jon with a quiet noise, latching with a quiet click, lace curtains rustling just slightly.

“Have you two eaten yet?”

And Jon has to smile a bit at that, as Angela ushers him and Sasha towards the sitting room, past puzzles and family pictures and minutiae lining the walls.

“Just give a minute to get tea,” Angela says, calmly bullying Sasha into taking a seat through sheer physical intimidation with a slightly exasperated manner.

But Angela grabs Jon’s elbow when he makes to move towards the kitchen, to help Angela bring out tea and biscuits.

“Sit,” Angela insists.

“Yeah, Jon,” Sasha chimes in. _Don’t you dare leave me_ , her expression says again.

Jon sits next to Sasha.

“And you may not come into the kitchen so long as you have that… _monstrosity_ ,” Angela says, disgust clear on her fac e. “You’ll give yourself a heart attack.”

“That’s the idea.” Jon takes a small sip, pointedly avoiding eye contact with either Angela or Sasha.

Jon can’t smell any biscuits – or any kind of food, really. Or tea. Or any coffee aside from his own, thankfully. Whatever Angela’s doing, bustling around in the kitchen, Jon can’t guess.

There’s a new puzzle on the wall, though. A scene of a bustling dock.

“…Puzzles are a common pastime,” Sasha murmurs, leaning into Jon.

“I think we’re lying to ourselves at this point,” Jon murmurs back.

“Probably,” Sasha agrees. “Probably.”

//

“Look, we did kind of leave you to a worm siege,” Tim points out. “I’m not letting you buy lunch.”

“Tim, it was an accident,” Martin insists. “Or – you know what I mean. It wasn’t on purpose.”

Tim shrugs, nonplussed. “I’m the one who invited you out, I’m buying lunch.”

“It’s not like you meant to!”

“What do you want, Martin?”

“Oh – do you know if their lasagna is any good?”

//

“Do you like the fit of it?”

Jon tugs awkwardly at the hem, looking in the mirror. It’s – at this point, it is probably the only jumper he has (or will have) that actually fits the way jumpers are classically supposed to. Staghorn cables and honeycomb cables and carefully placed ribbing so the arms aren’t too big and rolled hems and –

It’s warm, and dense, and when Jon pinches the fabric between his fingers, it’s wonderfully squishy.

“I like it,” Jon says, tugging again at the hem.

Angela frowns at him, pursing her lips as she sweeps a critical eye over him. “Would you like me to lengthen it? I still have yarn enough for that.”

“No, no.” Jon lets go, stuffs his hands into his pockets for wont of anything else to do with them. “I’m just – you’ve seen my cardigans.”

Angela huffs a small laugh. “Of course.”

“Do I need to – uh.” Jon looks down at the – his¬ – jumper. “Any special care?”

Angela shrugs. “It will last longer if you handwash it, of course. And if you lay it flat to dry. But no, that yarn is easy to take care of.”

“And it looks good,” Sasha adds, glancing up from her book for just a moment. “Gran, isn’t that the pattern you used on the blanket you gave mum three years ago?”

“Four,” Angela corrects, “and no, that was a different pattern.”

“Huh.” Sasha stares at Jon for a moment. “So we both have jumpers from Angela here, want to match on Monday and give Martin a heart attack?”

“I think I have the wrong kind of shoes to match,” Jon says quickly, without thinking – and feels his heart sink when a spark lights in Sasha’s eyes. “Sasha, no –”

//

“How are you doing, though?” Tim asks, elbow propped on the table and chin propped on his hand. “With – you know.”

Martin groans. “Stop asking me that!” He puts his fork down with a huff, and levels his best unimpressed look at Tim. “Yes, you didn’t think to check on me in person. Which is probably good on account of it being Prentiss outside my door!”

And then the rant is done, and Martin abruptly deflates.

Tim pauses. “I was actually talking about staying with Jon, but fair point.” 

“I think he’s judging me for my soap.”

“You think what?” Tim asks, barely stifling a laugh.

“Well, it’s not like I use whatever complicated expensive time consuming stuff that he uses on his hair,” Martin defends, “and I think he’s judging me for it.”

“Are you telling me you don’t have a ten-step hair care regimen?” Tim grins across the table. “For shame, Martin.”

“It’s not like I have long hair,” Martin huffs. “I don’t need anything complicated.”

“I feel like Jon would argue on principle,” Tim says, “but no, in general. Staying with Jon. How’s that? Tell me.” He raises an eyebrow. “How many beds are there?”

Martin feels like his face is probably the same shade as the spaghetti sauce remnants on his plate. Or is very quickly approaching it.

Tim’s expression does not turn to sadistic glee, however – when Martin finally manages to make eye contact again, there’s a degree of sympathy on Tim’s face.

“You feel bad about kicking him out of his bed?” Tim guesses.

“Uh.”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “He’s left you on the _couch_?”

Martin looks down.

“Martin.”

Martin doesn’t look up.

“Martin, please.”

There’s a small shred of cheese left on Martin’s plate. Wouldn’t do to waste that.

“Martin, are you sharing the bed?”

…the shred is too small for Martin to get with his fork. How inappropriate would it be for him to use his finger?

“ _Martin_.”

Martin flinches when Tim puts a hand atop his.

“Martin, are you sharing the bed?”

“…Yes.” Martin doesn’t look up from his plate. “Look, it’s not like he’d agree to me taking the couch, and I wasn’t going to kick him out, so…”

Finally, Martin looks up, and truly wishes he hadn’t.

“I mean, it’s not _ideal_ ,” Martin says – and it isn’t, not really. Not when they’ve danced around what happened in January, not when Jon still insists on paying for everything, not when Martin still doesn’t know _how Jon takes his fucking tea_.

“Well, if you want,” Tim says slowly, “my flat is open.”

//

“Jon, stop that.”

“Hmn?” Jon glances over at Angela, eyebrows raised.

“It’s bad for your teeth.”

What –?

Oh.

Jon sheepishly lowers his hand. It… he’s not sure _when_ he’d started biting, but his fingertips are slightly damp and Jon’s teeth abruptly feel gritty, regardless of how many times he’s washed his hands today.

“It’s an awful habit,” Angela continues, needles clacking steadily in the quiet as Sasha messes with the TV in search of some detective show or another. “And very unsanitary.”

Jon surreptitiously wipes his fingertips on his trouser leg, and looks at Angela.

Bartholomew, down the way, is a young teen with too much energy and fond of chattering at anybody. It’s simple for Angela to bribe him with sweets and a listening ear – he moves the spinning wheel, he gets to talk. He helps stack the family pictures away, he gets biscuits. He helps put everything back, he gets to try and pet Fish.

Jon opens his mouth, and asks with a voice rumbling through his chest like radio static, a voice that comes heralded with sharp burst of harsh noise before clicking into painful clarity.

“When did you finish your first puzzle?”

Sasha goes rigid.

Angela doesn’t stop knitting. But she begins to talk.

“I was thirteen,” Angela begins, and Jon finds he cannot tear his eyes away.

Sasha is frozen on the couch, sprawled inelegantly in a way that must have her arm going numb, and she is staring dead ahead.

Jon does not blink. He stares directly at Angela, eyes open wide as he drinks in her words, as he listens to her describe boxes and bones and dynamics that she felt the need to shift, decades upon decades of it all.

Angela’s hands never still. Her needles clack away endlessly, a metronome behind her words that should provide some degree of comfort, should act like the calming ticking of a grandfather clock.

They don’t, of course. There is no comfort. Her needles add to her story, her words and intonation dancing with the beats and half beats created by the sounds of her needles. Metal, size zero. Sharp enough to take someone’s eye out with ease.

Jon finds that he cannot move. But more than that, he does not _want_ to move, does not want to break the spell of Angela’s words, not matter how much he may think that his eyes sought to be aching by now as minutes upon minutes have dragged by and he _has not blinked_ the entire time, not matter how oppressive Angela’s words may become as she describes power and desperation and helping some people with horrible exes and helping horrible people with inconvenient friends.

Jon does not blink.

Jon does not want to blink.

He sits like a statue, eyes wide and seeing all too much, Sasha his counterpoint in playful repose sprawled against him with her head smushed against his side and her arm stuck under her torso and feet shoved uncomfortably against the couch’s armrest.

And Angela keeps speaking.

Jon doesn’t know how long. He doesn’t know how long he listens, he doesn’t know how long Angela tells of puzzles and paintings and people and packages.

He does know when it stops, though.

Because Angela stops knitting, and Jon blinks again, and Sasha struggles to a sitting position.

Angela calmly reaches out, and takes a sip of tea, clearing her throat. “Jon, that was rude,” she says – and yes, her voice is just this side of raspy, just this side of hoarse and painful.

“…I’ll make you some tea,” Sasha says, struggling to her feet and wincing as her spine and neck pop _loudly_. “Honey?”

“Please.”

And Sasha takes Angela’s mug, and flees.

“…What did I do?” Jon asks frankly, looking at Angela – and he can see the greyish tinge to her skin now, how her eyes are ever so slightly bloodshot, how her hands are trembling just a bit.

Angela shrugs. “You asked a question.”

“I –”

“Jon.” Angela raises an eyebrow at him. “Lying to yourself is unattractive. How are you ever going to get the attention of those two boys if you refuse to acknowledge things?”

Jon blinks in surprise. What –?

“You are no different than I am. We act in different ways, but we are not different.”

“So I’m going to just – just, wake up and start finding people in boxes?” Jon demands, voice tinging on hysteria.

“Not unless you work at a cemetery.”

Neither of them smile at Angela’s joke.

“You’re the one who works in a research institute, Jon. I am… self-taught.” Angela raises an eyebrow at him. “And I have better manners than you do, which is something you need to change, because people like us are often _grouchy_.”

“How do I do that?” Jon asks, leaning forwards. “You’re not – I – I think this has. This is not new.” _Cannot_ be new, not when a man came from a magic door in the ceiling in Jon’s flat and was angered about Jon asking a question, but Jon has to know, has one last test –

“What do you think I am?” Jon asks.

And his voice is normal. Desperate, somewhat scared, but bereft of static and insistence, and Angela just gives him a disappointed look.

“Jon.” Angela shakes her head. “Jon, what do you want me to say?”

“I want an _answer_.”

“I don’t have one for you.”

Jon takes a breath, ready to argue, to question, but Angela shakes her head again.

“I am who I am because I made choices,” Angela says. “And I think you are who – and what – you are because you did the same. We didn’t have good options, Jon. I went with the best options I had. And I think you did the same.”

Jon drops his gaze – drops his hand from his mouth, because apparently he’d started gnawing at his thumbnail again.

“I’ll… I’ll just go help Sasha, then.” He stands. “You look like you need something to eat.”

Angela smiles, a bit wan but genuine nonetheless. “Thank you. Between you and me, she’s perfectly competent in the kitchen. She just leaves a mess, you know?”

Jon blinks at her. “…So did I.”

“Yes, but you didn’t know how to cook. She has no excuse. And she once tried to fry her hair with the pancakes.”

Jon bites back an inelegant snort at that mental image. “And you still want her to grow it out?”

Angela’s smile turns a bit warmer. “Maybe just to mid-back. I don’t think she could deal with hair like yours.”

“My ears are burning!” Sasha calls from the kitchen. “What are you two doing?”

“Nothing, dear,” Angela calls back. “Jon…?”

Jon shakes his head, pushes up the sleeves on his new jumper. “Of course. Any requests for lunch?”

//

Technically speaking, Martin’s not sure if he’s allowed to have guests over. It’s Jon’s flat, after all.

But Tim had offered, and Tim’s also Jon’s friend (probably? Martin’s unsure), so it works out. Probably.

Martin’s decided not to think on it, as Tim goes on and on about the awful writing and poor planning and overhyping of one author that Martin didn’t catch the name of.

He’s been going on for two hours.

Martin thought that only happened on TV, but apparently not.

Two hours, three cups of tea, half a bottle of wine, and Tim’s still complaining.

“…and the magic system is so _lauded_ like it’s this amazingly unique thing, and yeah, it’s great, but the _implications_ , Martin! The implications of it!”

Martin hums sympathetically, and purls another stitch.

“The implications of it and how it _tries_ to set up one system of power but oh look, the author was born in the fifties and it shows because it’s really just an awful parody of that system of power but everybody believe that that’s the system that’s in place so clearly, _clearly_ , acting out in certain ways upon the characters who use magic is completely justified and has no bad subtext!”

Martin may or may not have lost track of Tim’s rant within the first ten minutes. But it’s nice to hear Tim talk about something like this, unashamedly and unabashedly and intense, but intense in a way that’s somehow approachable?

He doesn’t scare Martin, is the thing. Not even while he’s gesticulating wildly and randomly breaking into asides about pronunciation and unnecessary filler that sure, makes for nice world building, but really isn’t _necessary_ to the plot and honestly, the author could have just left that in his notes, and –

Martin’s definitely lost track of the conversation, but it’s entertaining. Better than a number of podcasts Martin has tried in the past.

And company is nice.

He never really liked being alone. So Tim’s company is nice.

And then the lock clicks, and Martin twists on the couch rapidly enough that his yarn falls from his lap and bounces across the floor, and Tim nearly knocks over his mug of wine grabbing for the yarn, and the door swings open –

And it’s Jon, carrying a shoebox under one arm, wearing an unfamiliar jumper under his coat. One that Jon definitely hadn’t bought since the Leitner, because this jumper has – maybe five centimeters of positive ease? Two and a half? Barely any, especially compared to the ones Jon’s been wearing.

And the cables make Martin’s heart _sing_.

“Jon!” Tim cries, standing with yarn in one hand and wine in the other.

“Tim?” Jon nearly drops the shoebox. “Tim, what –?”

“I was keeping Martin company,” Tim declares, gesturing at Martin with the hand still holding the yarn.

“And now you’re drunk?” Jon asks dryly, locking the door behind him and gently putting the shoebox down. “Hello, Martin.”

“Hi.” Martin waves. “How’s Angela?”

Jon shrugs a shoulder. “She’s… fine.”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “Fine, or _spooky_ fine?”

Martin frowns up at Tim.

“She’s fine, Tim,” Jon repeats. “Ah, it’s – it’s late. Should I get blankets for you, Tim?”

Tim looks down at Martin.

Martin looks up at Tim.

“Hell yeah, boss.”

//

There is a clear path describing how they ended up sprawled on the floor.

That path roughly started around “Tim got wine-drunk” and ended with “Tim gets clingy when wine-drunk” in combination of “Jon clearly likes affection.”

Martin would be damned before he understood the intermediate steps, though.

Blankets and cushions were laid out on the floor – carefully, under Tim’s watchful eye – and then Martin ended up tripping and landing on his side, and Tim took that as an invitation to lay next to him, and then Jon had climbed between them both and dragged a blanket over them and now they were tangled together on the floor, and would probably need to shift halfway through the night so nobody overheated.

Also, absolutely none of them had plugged their phones in, so Martin’s willing to bet that they’ll all oversleep.

…Could be worse.

They’re warm, and Martin’s relatively comfortable, and Jon’s nestled between them both and Tim’s arm is wrapped around Martin.

It’ll be worth a sore back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cuddle pile happens and jon's just like " _fuck_ yeah" and climbs right into the center. some cat habits will never leave
> 
> what's in the shoebox? steel toed boots. inspired by the fact that i just bought gay shoelaces for my combat boots
> 
> also fun fact the bit with angela was supposed to be short, and i was planning on adding in stuff from multiple days, so @me rip in pieces


	51. Sunday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a profoundly out of character twist, Martin and Jon have a discussion. 
> 
> Tim does not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys remember when everybody broke the dress code and had a blast doing so and i wrote that chapter in the midst of a mental breakdown over my final project in a foreign language class that i was convinced i was gonna fail?   
> well LOOK https://satanicartpirate.tumblr.com/post/621526751738216448/scritches-blessed-us-with-the-crew-in-dresses-and

The blanket covering Jon is truly unnecessary, he thinks – encased as he is, clutched close to Tim’s chest with his face buried in Tim’s shirt (and oh, how Jon wishes that he’d been able to offer Tim something to sleep in instead of leaving Martin to do so) with Martin laying close behind him, arm slung across Jon’s side to clasp Tim’s hand.

It’s a thin cotton blanket. More of a bedsheet, really. It’s still quite unnecessary. 

But the shirt Tim borrowed is soft and smells of laundry detergent, and the nest they’d ended up tangled in is comfortable enough, and Jon can’t quite find it in himself to be bothered by the heat that’s edging just on the boundary of _too warm_.

It’s early still, Jon knows. It’s not early enough for people to congregate at the church three blocks down, which happens at roughly eight in the morning, so it’s early. By the standards of a weekend, it’s early.

It’s not like he has any plans. Not with Sasha developing a sixth sense of knowing whenever he goes to work on the weekend and showing up to yell at him.

And Jon’s warm, at the lovely point just on the pleasant edge of too warm, and Jon can’t really summon up the urge to move.

Martin wakes next. Jon can tell from the sudden shifting, the sudden change from lax and comfortable to stiff and tense.

Understandable, considering they’re all sprawled on the floor. Jon’s got the best of it, he thinks – half pillowed on Tim’s chest, the only real pain he has is where his hipbone is digging into the floor. But Martin? Martin’s only cushioned by a pillow or two adopt the blankets they’d spread across the floor, and no amount of personal padding can make that as comfortable as it should be. Laying on top of Martin would have been comfortable, perhaps more comfortable than Tim, but it’s not like Martin has the same option.

But Martin stays still, and slowly relaxes. Which is – well, Jon’s not going to complain over it. If Martin enjoys it as much as he does, he certainly won’t complain.

“Morning,” Jon says quietly – and then coughs, a small thing to clear an odd tickle in his throat.

Martin tenses again, but pulls closer to Jon nonetheless. “Morning,” he replies, voice equally quiet, free hand gently pressing into Jon’s back as Jon coughs. But there’s an odd quality to Martin’s voice, almost like an accent but clearly _not_ because Martin’s voice remains the same.

Jon decides not to think on it, since Martin stretches as much as possible without moving, and shifts to extract his arm from under Jon’s head, and settles in close.

//

Martin wakes with a long list of sore body parts, a completely dead arm, and a face-full of greying hair that, admittedly, smells quite nice.

He goes rigid.

They… if Jon has questions, Martin’s going to blame the entire thing on Tim and Tim’s excitement. Except Jon probably _won’t_ have questions, because he climbed directly between Martin and Tim with casual ease, settling into a space that probably wasn’t big enough for him until he wriggled his way in, wriggled until Martin and Tim slid apart just a bit.

Honestly, Martin’s not sure if Jon having questions will be worse than Jon not having questions.

Not his problem, Martin decides. Not yet.

“Good morning,” Jon says in softly accented Polish, voice raspy in a way that says this is the first time he’s spoken this morning.

Martin probably should ask where (and why) Jon learned fluent Polish. Later. After tea and breakfast, when they’re all awake. But if Jon wants to practice this early in the morning…

“Good morning,” Martin replies in kind, gently rubbing Jon’s back when Jon coughs quietly.

Jon coughs, and Martin digs his knuckles into Jon’s back, and stretches slowly as Jon’s cough subsides. His hip is sore.

…His entire right side is sore, frankly, but his hip and shoulder have the worst of it.

“Have you been awake long?” Martin asks, pulling back ever so slightly so as not to get a mouthful of hair when he speaks.

“No, not really.” Jon shrugs, careful not to jostle Martin or Tim. “…Sleep well?”

“…Yeah, actually. You?”

“Mhm.”

Martin can feel a slight bit of tension building in Jon’s back, something he’d miss were he not _literally plastered up against Jon_.

“Do you usually wake up before me?”

Martin blinks, frowns – when did Jon find out about that? Martin had never exactly mentioned _oh, by the way, your mattress is uncomfortable enough that I regularly wake up half an hour before the alarm but never move because you’re an octopus and I’m stuck and am too comfortable to bother moving, regardless of the fact that you’re my boss and also I still have qualms about January._

“Oh. Do you – ah. Do you, do you mind?” Jon asks, voice tentative. “I wasn’t joking when I said that I was perfectly happy to take the couch.”

…Had Martin said yes? Had Martin said that aloud? That’s not promising _at all_.

“I promise, I haven’t been meaning to take advantage of any – any guilt? You’re blameless, after all, whether we’re talking about, about sleeping situations or food or throwing out my shirt or –”

“Or nearly garroting you?” Martin jokes.

And his joke sticks the landing, and Jon laughs slightly.

“Yes, or garroting me,” he says. “Tim nearly broke my neck twice, I promise, strangling me once is no issue. Also, none of you should ever be allowed cats.”

“That’s – yeah, that’s fair.”

“And I don’t think that counts at garroting, garrotes involve a handle attached to the wire –”

“ _Jon_.” And Martin can’t keep fond amusement out of his voice, tightening his arm around Jon even as Jon huffs and buries his face into Tim’s chest.

“Fine,” Jon mumbles. “Fine.”

“You’re fine, Jon,” Martin says. “I don’t mind.”

“That’s not exactly resounding agreement –”

“Jon, it’s fine,” Martin repeats. “It’s fine. I could always have insisted on moving to the couch, you know?” Which maybe he should have, but his words make Jon relax in a way that crushes any doubt about Jon’s metaphorical comfort level with the whole situation.

“…True. That’s – that’s true.”

//

It’s quiet rumbling of city traffic that finally filters through to Tim, slowly drags him to wakefulness whether he wants it to or not, slowly drags him into awareness of a minor hangover and stiff neck, of a warm presence in his arms and someone holding his hand.

Also he’s wearing an unfamiliar shirt, because none of the shirts he wears to bed still have sleeved attached after he ended up rather drunk with a pair of scissors available and nobody to point out that cutting off sleeves would be a bad idea. This was back when he was in uni. That’s Tim’s defense. Nobody was functional the day after finals. Also, it’s not like anybody ever comes around and stays the night and _sees_ what he’d done to those shirts, so it doesn’t really matter.

Tim shifts, grimaces when his neck pops and back creaks. He’s on the floor. On top of a few blankets, which helps but doesn’t do anywhere near enough.

…Probably because he’d ended up falling over last night while building a blanket nest, and had refused to get up to let Martin or Jon add more blankets.

Briefly, Tim wonders if he can pretend he’s still drunk. Because the ensuing intervention would be infinitely preferable to whatever is about to happen, he knows for a fact.

“Morning,” Jon says, and it’s _Jon_ who’s curled up into Tim’s chest, on hand clenched in the front of Tim’s – Martin’s – shirt and the other wrapped around Tim’s waist. Which means that it’s Martin who Tim is literally holding hands with.

“Oh, is he up?” That comes from Martin, who sounds unfairly cognizant for whatever indecent time it has to be.

“Unfortunately,” Tim says, stretching as much as he can without dislodging Jon, because Jon is nestled directly between him and Martin with absolutely _no_ extra space, and hitting him in the face in an attempt to stretch would just be rude. “Good morning.”

“I think it’s ten,” Jon offers, shifting back as much as he can (not much, due to him being _crammed between Martin and Tim_ ) and looking at Tim.

“That’s still morning,” Tim replies without thinking, and Martin laughs quietly, and it is very soft and homey and Tim has the urge to make use of a window. Falling to his death would be _unpleasant_ , but at least Tim wouldn’t have to deal with any ramifications of this.

“Still early enough for breakfast, though,” Jon says, and turns out Jon’s limbs work in mysterious ways that are probably enabled by his habit of sitting perched in his office chair like a bird, but Tim’s still not sure exactly _how_ Jon manages to escape without kicking either Tim or Martin in the head. Or just kicking them in general. 

“I’m afraid I don’t have black tea,” Jon continues, stepping away from the blanket nest they’d made last night. “Is green tea alright, Tim?”

Tim sighs, rolls onto his back. Realizes that he’s still holding Martin’s hand, and promptly lets go. “Sure, boss,” he says to the ceiling. “Green tea sounds fine.”

“Tim, you just spent the night on my floor,” Jon points out, and there’s a familiar hint of dryness to his tone. “I think you can use my name.”

“ _Jonathan_.”

“ _Timothy_ ,” Jon mocks.

“Jon,” Martin scolds as he stands, and then Tim is left alone in a blanket nest that only has one thin blanket to be used as an actual blanket and he’s suddenly very cold.

So Tim sits with a groan, twists until his back pops loudly enough to make him flinch, and reluctantly clambers to his feet.

Martin is moving around the kitchen, weaving around Jon with the kind of ease that comes from working in a busy restaurant, and Jon’s awkwardly standing by the stove, three mugs lined up on the counter, box of tea at the ready, as he waits for the kettle to boil.

“So.” Tim stretches, ambles over to stand in the general vicinity of the little kitchen area that really isn’t big enough to hold two people, let alone three. “Uh. Good morning?”

“We’ve been over that, Tim,” Jon says, plopping tea bags into mugs and putting the box of tea away.

“Doesn’t hurt to double check.” Tim sighs. Definitely could be more awkward, he thinks.

“How did you sleep?” Martin asks, glancing over his shoulder as he cracks eggs into a pan, thoroughly proving Tim’s assertion wrong.

“Fine?” Tim shrugs. “Sore. But I’ll be fine.”

“Better than the alternative,” Jon says, and then it’s silent again.

Tim doesn’t like silence.

He doesn’t know how to break it, though.

“So!” Martin breaks the silence on Tim’s behalf, and he could hug Martin out of gratitude. “How do you like your eggs?”

Tim shrugs.

“That’s not helpful, Tim,” Jon admonishes.

“It’s early –”

“It’s nearly eleven, Tim.”

Tim gives Jon an unimpressed look. “—it’s _early_ , and I’m still tired. So long as they’re cooked, I don’t care.”

“Pickled eggs it is, then,” Jon says without missing a beat, and Tim _swears_ he can see a hint of a teasing smile on Jon’s face.

“Ew,” Martin mutters. “No.”

“Agreed.” Tim shrugs, winces as his shoulder protests. He’s still too tired for this. He’ll accept tea and breakfast and then make a relatively dignified escape. Provided he can find out where his shirt went.

//

_I feel like you’ve done something I should make fun of you for_

Jon looks at his phone in dismay, briefly thanks whatever god may exist for being momentarily benevolent and making Tim and Martin be in an involved discussion about… something, Jon missed the beginning.

He’s beginning to think Sasha may have bugged his flat.

_Jon we agreed im the disaster here_

_We never agreed to that, and you’ve declared the opposite multiple times._

Sasha doesn’t respond, and so Jon puts his phone away. Let her wait for a response. It won’t kill her.

“Jon, agree with me,” Tim orders.

“I have no idea what’s going on, but I feel like I’m more inclined to agree with Martin, going off of precedent,” Jon says immediately.

Martin looks vindicated. Tim looks betrayed.

Jon decides that he’ll probably never understand the context of what just happened, and goes to help clean the counters. Martin had made pancakes. The pancake batter did not remain confined to the bowl.

//

It’s well past noon when Tim makes his escape, offering excuses about getting over a hangover (mostly a lie, he’ll be fine after a cup of coffee or two) and being ready for work in the morning (definitely a lie, he’ll be exhausted regardless).

But he helps fold up the blankets, store them neatly, and ignores the feeling in his chest when he leaves Martin and Jon to their own devices, which probably include tea and knitting and Jon bitching out an author in absentia while Martin nods along absently.

Tim’s flat is warm enough, and he has microfiber blankets of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tim is the least functional. he gets the disaster title right now. he's taken that away from jon which honestly is a feat in and of itself  
> also i know that jon doesnt get the universal language translator until after he gets blown up but its my fic and my lore mistakes so im rollin with it


	52. Monday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha's plan is carried out, with disappointingly little effect. 
> 
> Rosie has a discussion. 
> 
> Tim has not had a fun time, which sadly continues. 
> 
> Jon also has a discussion, but it is significantly less happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for slight unreality in the first section, and continued warning for nail biting
> 
> also tim is straight up Not Having A Good Time yall. sleep deprivation makes everything worse and he has not slept well
> 
> also also (edit because i've been up for Too Long and am forgetful): https://solitaaaaaairrrre.tumblr.com/post/622817880576311296/cover-for-scritches-for-the-archivist-i-worked i am actually in love??

Jon’s fingers hurt.

They hurt as he wanders deep in the Archives, trailing his hands over books arranged haphazardly on the shelves. Proper books, not boxes of statements. Old books, leather bound with inscribed titles. Thick books that smell strongly of old paper and dust – but not of rot or mildew, because these are the Archives, and archives store books and knowledge, not decay.

Jon’s fingers hurt.

They hurt as he picks up thick tomes that must weigh more than the Admiral, heaving them into his arms one after the other and putting them back in their proper place.

Because of course, they all must have a proper place.

He doesn’t know why each place is proper, not when he can’t read the titles, not when each movement makes his fingers burn, but each book has its proper place, and Jon knows exactly where it is.

Jon’s fingers hurt.

And there are no paper cuts, no bruises, no redness – nothing to explain the pain away.

Jon’s fingers hurt.

And gnawing at his nails does nothing to help.

//

“New shoes?” Martin asks, raising his eyebrows at the leather boots that Jon is presently struggling with. “Socks that thin, you’ll have blisters within an hour.”

Jon pauses, looks up at Martin.

He’s wearing the pale blue jumper he’d come home in, yesterday.

It’s _impressive_. Martin wants to know where he got it – and if he can get a good look at it, reverse engineer the cables.

“I, uh.” Jon looks down at his half-tied boots. “Would two pairs of socks work? I’m afraid I don’t exactly have thick socks.”

“I can make some,” Martin offers before he can think better of it. And Jon blinks in surprise, which is slightly ridiculous because Jon saw Martin working on a pair of socks yesterday, and also that jumper is _absolutely_ handknit. “If – if you want.”

Jon blinks owlishly once more, then looks down at his shoes. “I – I would appreciate that, Martin,” he says quietly. “But that doesn’t – well, socks take time. Knitting takes time.”

“And I’ll have to measure your feet,” Martin agrees. “But yeah. Just put on another pair of socks. Don’t want to bleed all over your new boots.”

“Not when my last set of blisters have only recently healed,” Jon agrees.

Really, where _did_ he get that jumper?

“You could wait a few days,” Martin points out. “Won’t take me long. I could probably get them done by tomorrow. Insomnia, you know?” Waking up before Jon and not wanting to get out of bed, more like it.

Jon smiles, an odd mix of fond and awkward that nonetheless lights up his eyes in a _very_ pleasant expression. “I think Sasha would kill me if I didn’t wear these today.”

…Martin’s not going to ask.

//

“Morning,” Sasha says cheerfully, handing a cup of coffee over to Rosie. “Twenty pounds on next month.”

Rosie shakes her head fondly, a mischievous look on her face as she hands over a few bills to pay Sasha back. “I’m sticking with the birthday party, dear.”

“Is Vivian still keeping track?”

“Yes, and don’t try and sway her. She’s impartial.”

“Maybe I was just going to say hello to Fifi,” Sasha says innocently.

Her expression does not fool Rosie.

Very little can, after working in the Institute for so long.

//

Sasha is wearing heavy duty leather boots.

She does most days, dressing them up with a skirt or hiding them under slacks.

They are the same kind of shoe as that which Jon brought home.

Sasha’s also wearing a cardigan with the same kind of cabling as the one that Jon’s wearing. The same attention to detail, the same kind of classic motif, though hers is a bright red, and cheery nupps and graceful cabling, both done in golden yellow, adorn the collar and band in a classic design that seems reminiscent of dress uniforms. But it doesn’t clash, somehow, with the elegant and classic cables on the rest of the body and the sleeves.

Martin decides that he’s not jealous. He just wants to get a close look at the cardigan, see if he can figure out the techniques.

Same kind of footwear, jumpers made by the same person – Martin thinks this may be on purpose. Probably Sasha’s idea. No, _definitely_ Sasha’s idea, considering what Jon said.

“Morning,” Sasha says, flopping down into her chair in a move that really ought to spill her coffee everywhere, but somehow doesn’t. “Been here long?”

“Not really.” Martin shrugs awkwardly, stuffing his knitting in his desk. Worsted weight yarn, thirteen stitches to five centimeters. Nice and sturdy socks, to hold up to Jon’s boots. “We got in – six? Half past?”

Sasha shakes her head dramatically, and succeeds in hitting herself in the face with the cord to her headphones. “You need to put your foot down,” she says, leaning in Martin’s general direction. “Insist on getting in at a normal time.”

“I don’t mind, really.” Martin’s beginning to contemplate getting his knitting back out, and adding cabling to the pattern so he has an excuse to not look at Sasha. “Gives me time to do… stuff.”

A gleam enters Sasha’s eye, one that never bodes well for anybody even vaguely involved – the kind of gleam that usually ends up mirrored in Tim, and then that practically turns _nuclear_.

“Uh-huh.”

Martin stares at Sasha for a moment.

“Martin.”

Martin blinks at her.

“Martin, what kind of _stuff_ do you do?”

Martin’s ears turn red, and he pulls his knitting back out to the sounds of Sasha’s cackling. Maybe there is a benevolent God of some kind, because Tim’s not here to join in on the teasing.

Maybe there _isn’t_ a benevolent God because Tim left Jon’s flat yesterday like he was being hunted, which is something Martin doesn’t really want to examine in any great detail.

Maybe, maybe, maybe. There’s a reason Martin never went to theology.

Multiple reasons, the primary one being that he never goes to church anymore, but there are other reasons. The duality of humankind gives Martin enough of a headache, he doesn’t need to explore divine versions.

//

To say that Tim did not sleep well would be an understatement. He spent the day a wreck, ambling around his flat looking for something to do, utterly incapable of focusing at the gym, downing cup after cup of coffee and still not being able to really think straight.

It’s ridiculous, really. He’d groped Jon, for fuck’s sake. Spent multiple nights clutching Jon like a stuffed animal. Not to mention nose kisses.

It should not be a big deal.

Tim should have been able to go home and get over it – at most, run for a while and use that to get past the leftover anxiety and stress and worry that’s spawned as a result of drunkenly cuddling with his coworker and his boss.

He couldn’t, of course.

It’s ridiculous. But he couldn’t get over it. Because it’s different now, isn’t it? Jon’s ease and comfort with maneuvering his way between Tim and Martin, the casualness with which he acted the next morning, hell, even Martin’s comfort with the whole thing, and also _holding Martin’s hand_ –

Well. Tim couldn’t get over it. Not easily. And it affected his day, and his sleep, and now he’s going into work sleep deprived and grouchy and his head is already throbbing despite the painkillers he’s already taken, and today in general does not seem promising.

//

“Hey.”

Jon ignores Sasha’s voice, fumbling for his headphones on his desk – but doesn’t move fast enough, because her hand is in his line of sight and grabbing his own.

“Hey, Jon.”

Jon sighs.

“Yes, Sasha?”

“I will literally buy you ice cream tomorrow if you get to work at a decent time.”

“You’re always up, why don’t you deliver the ice cream in person?” Jon retorts dryly, resting his chin in his hand and staring pointedly at Sasha.

“Leave my sleep schedule out of this!” Sasha glares, and there’s enough heat behind it to give Jon pause. “Look, Jon. My sleep schedule is my problem.”

“You make it my problem on a daily basis –”

“Turn your phone on do not disturb, then.” Sasha flaps her free hand at him. “My sleep schedule is my problem. I use it to torment you because gran has decided we’re siblings now –”

“You decided that long before Angela did –”

“ _Hush_.” Sasha taps Jon’s nose. “Hush, and stop biting your nails.”

Jon takes his hand away from his mouth, if only to ensure that she doesn’t grab it in her own and completely ruin any chance he might have of escape.

“What I’m _saying_ is.” Sasha leans in close. “You’re dragging Martin to work. At six in the morning.”

“Half past,” Jon corrects. “Not six.”

Sasha sighs. “This is an intervention, Jon.”

“He has a key, he can come into work late,” Jon points out. “It’s his decision.”

“This is an intervention on your behalf, Jon.”

Jon sighs. “Sasha. Why?”

“Maybe because I want to have more than three years with which to annoy you? Because supernatural job security or not, you are _going_ to work yourself into an early grave.”

“Death is an illusion and so is the job market,” Jon jokes weakly.

Sasha just raises an eyebrow.

“And, look, if this is about Martin…” Jon shrugs. “He has a key. He can come and go, he can wait to come in until nine and leave at five. There’s nothing – I’m not dragging him here every morning.”

Sasha looks unconvinced.

“Sasha.” Jon reaches out, despite his misgivings, and lays his free hand on top of Sasha’s. “He’s fine. He’s a grown man.”

“He’s a _pushover_.”

“Maybe, but he’s also said that he doesn’t want to be alone.” Jon shrugs. “It’s his choice to come in at the same time. Respect that.”

Sasha stares at him for a moment longer, eyes narrowed. Jon thinks she’s wearing a new mascara today – her eyelashes look longer. Or maybe she just took the time to curl them.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Sasha finally says, leaning back. “Point taken, Jon.”

“Thanks,” Jon says dryly, carefully extricating both hands from her grasp. “Have you gotten in touch with Michelle Gilbraith’s family?”

“Working on it.” Sasha hops off her desk, cracks her neck. “Stop biting your nails, I swear. I _will_ show up at your flat with nail polish at an ungodly hour if you don’t.”

“I prefer blue,” Jon says. “Or green.” 

“I’ll bring red.”

Jon makes a face at Sasha, and Sasha grins back. “Nice red to clash with your eyes. Maybe the color of my cardigan? Yes?”

Jon just groans, and makes a vague gesture towards the door. “Out. You have work. Do it.”

His nails just feel odd, at times. That's all. 

//

Time does not heal Tim’s headache. Having to travel down to the precinct to get information about a missing person does not heal Tim’s headache. Martin making him tea does not heal Tim’s headache, especially not when Tim can’t even look Martin in the eye.

Which is why he finds himself in the breakroom halfway through the afternoon, lunch still untouched, glaring at the kettle as it slowly comes to a boil. Dehydration worsens headaches. Clearly, getting tea will fix things. Martin seems to think so, and Tim is at the end of his rope.

And Tim hears footsteps, because not only does his head hurt but everything is too _loud_.

And Tim sees someone out of the corner of his eye, sees a bright red coat with gold buttons and cording, and his heart stops.

He whirls and lashes out, fist swinging wildly, and Sasha – because of course it’s Sasha standing there, why would it be anything else? – ducks out of the way.

Overbalances.

Falls.

And Tim cannot grab her in time, can only watch as she hits the ground and as her head bounces against the carpeted floor, as she shrieks something that’s probably profanity but Tim can’t focus enough to understand it.

And then the kettle shrieks.

Tim burns his hand, grabbing for the kettle and pulling it off the burner without looking, without tearing his eyes away from Sasha’s stunned form, how awkwardly her limbs are sprawled about. There’s no blood pooling around her head, nothing as dramatic as that, but there’s not – that doesn’t mean anything. She’s just staring up at the ceiling. Not moving.

//

Sasha is not always graceful. Her grace had fled in puberty when she grew and didn’t stop growing, and it took her years to get used to long limbs and big feet.

Tripping is normal for her. Falling and hitting her head is normal for her. She’d spent three months in martial arts with the pure intent of learning how to fall safely, and it hadn’t stuck.

Which is to say, finding herself sprawled on the carpet and staring up in the vague direction of where her soul had fled her body after it died from disappointment? That is not an odd position. Or an odd experience.

Having someone stare down at her in horror is also a depressingly common aspect to these experiences. Though there seems to be an odd edge to Tim’s expression as he stares at her, one that Sasha is hard-pressed to name.

“Good afternoon to you, too,” Sasha says dryly, clambering to her feet and cracking her neck. “If that fucked with my hair, I’m making you fix it.”

Tim lets out a sharp laugh, shakes his head. “Sorry, Sash. Can I interest you in some apologetic tea?”

“Apolotea accepted.” Sasha grins at him, twisting her head one last time in an attempt to crack her neck again, and goes to the fridge.

“You.” Tim points a stern finger at Sasha, fighting back a smile. “You are lucky we have no pens in here.”

But there’s a smile in Tim’s eyes, and he’s been in an awful mood all day, so really, Sasha can excuse needing some painkillers. Not like her ponytail wouldn’t make her need some at the end of the day, anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah so tim nearly punched sasha bc red cardigan + gold/yellow cables/nupps around the band = very Ringmaster Vibe. he thought she was a mannequin. same thing as a few chapters ago when he nearly decked jon, whilst jon was wrapped up in the red blanket. tim goes with the fight part of fight or flight and let me tell you, being sleep deprived wreaks havoc on that
> 
> also my wrists ache just thinking about the hell that intarsia nupps must be. intarsia cables are bad enough


	53. Saturday, and Monday three weeks later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon gets a gift. 
> 
> Sasha has an odd encounter. 
> 
> The collar is explained. 
> 
> (Read the content warnings.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> -Nail related self mutilation
> 
> i'm putting the specific kind of mutilation in the end notes, and also a summary. The mutilation happens in the very last section -- i've marked that section by putting -- instead of //

“Knock knock,” Sasha calls cheerfully as she unlocks and opens the door to Jon’s flat. “I have nail polish!”

There’s no response, of course.

It’s four in the morning, and a Saturday to boot – Jon’s probably asleep, like any normal person would be.

“Jon!” Sasha locks the door behind her and flicks on the lights, toeing off her shoes and ambling into the kitchen. Jon’s kettle is resting on a back burner, a handsome thing made of stainless steel with a black handle. Shrieking kettle. Which Jon has used to get out of conversations with her.

His coffee is kept next to the tea, a glass jar with leftover adhesive from where Jon had pulled the label off. Presumably, dark roast, though Sasha couldn’t say for certain.

“Jon!” Sasha repeats – and jumps, shrieks, when somebody taps on her elbow and gently prods her out of the way in order to grab a box of tea.

“Morning,” Jon says, voice only slightly bleary, hair mussed from sleep and the imprint of a pillow pressed deep into his cheek. “Why are you here?”

“Nail polish.” Sasha produces a bottle of cherry red polish, and grins. “Told you.”

“Sasha. Sasha, it’s –” Jon glances at the clock on the stove. “—four in the morning.”

“Told you I’d show up at an ungodly hour,” Sasha says with a grin, which only widens at Jon’s dead stare. “Martin still asleep?”

“Presumably.” Jon sighs, makes a vague gesture at a container of muffins. “Help yourself. If you haven’t already.”

And Sasha just grins at him, hands the kettle over for him to fill, and heads directly for the muffins.

//

“Do you like them?” Martin can’t help but ask, not looking away from Jon’s feet. It’s – well, _nerve wracking_ is an understatement, and he doesn’t want to see disappointment or awkwardness on Jon’s face as he tries to figure out how to politely tell Martin to shove off and stop offering to make him things.

The jumper Martin has been working on is oversized, not quite enough for it to fit Martin, but it’s wool from the local shop that Martin _really_ shouldn’t have bought because it was quite a lot of money, but maybe he could convince the women at the shop to accept it as a sample if he wrote up the pattern and published it, which really wouldn’t be _too_ awful, though the math to grade it to give it more sizes would be difficult, and he would need to buy more yarn to make samples, and he’d need to find people to test the sweater pattern and he’d have to deal with the politics of people who believe cheaper yarn is inherently inferior and he’d need to find people to give the other mock ups to, and he thinks he could send one to his babcia but she loves light grey but that yarn is sold out and won’t be back in stock until April and –

Jon’s voice breaks through Martin’s rapidly growing panic.

“I like them,” he says quietly, wiggling his toes and not looking up from the dense, cabled socks that probably count more as slippers because honeycomb cables make things incredibly thick, which is the _point_ of the socks, to save Jon from blisters. Also, Martin reinforced the heels and toes to hell and back. “They’re quite nice. Impressive.” Jon rocks back and forth once, twice, pressing down and smiling slightly. “I like them,” he repeats. “Thank you, Martin.”

Martin barely bites back a massive sigh of relief, and gives Jon a smile of his own. “You’re welcome,” he says. “Uh, superwash. You can machine wash them. It’s durable yarn.”

“It feels like it,” Jon agrees. “Thank you.”

Honeycomb cables and two by two ribbing. Squishy and stretchy.

Maybe Jon would accept a pair of bed socks?

“We probably ought to head out,” Jon points out after a moment. “It’s almost six. I need to record, and I –”

“You prefer to do that early,” Martin finishes. “Alright, let’s go.”

//

The man looks stretched, wrong, and makes Sasha’s skin crawl. And then she shifts, look through plain glass, and he’s just a man buying flowers.

But she’s late for work.

No matter how much she may want to investigate, she _can’t_ , because if she’s too late she’ll never live it down.

//

“Have you heard from Sasha?” Tim asks absently, flicking through Instagram. “She’s not usually late.”

“No.” Martin frowns. “I – no, I haven’t.”

Tim glances up, and grimaces. “Martin, she’s probably fine,” he assures. “Probably just overslept.”

“I don’t think Sasha sleeps,” Martin replies. “She showed up in the middle of the night with nail polish for Jon.”

“So _that’s_ where he got the nail polish.” Tim frowns. “Clashes with his eyes.”

“Everything clashes with his eyes, Tim.”

“Not neutrals! Or pastels, probably.”

The door to the Archives thuds open, and Sasha rushes through, hair messy and eyeliner slightly smudged. Which may or may not be on purpose, Tim’s not sure.

“Sasha!” Tim grins. “You’re late. Just watch, Jon’s not going to be happy.”

Sasha flaps a dismissive hand at him. “Lay off,” she retorts, dropping her bag at her desk. “I missed the train.”

//

There is something stuck under Jon’s nail, and he can’t get to it.

//

“Gideon.” Vivian gives Gideon an unimpressed look, crossing her arms and resting them on the table. “Really?”

Gideon shrugs, unrepentant, and pushes the plastic bag towards her. “Above my paygrade,” he says frankly, Texan drawl coming out in full force.

“Which is why you’ve only brought it down _now_.”

The plastic bag sits between them, unassuming in appearance, seemingly innocuous in contents.

“It’s above my paygrade,” Gideon repeats. “So now it’s your problem.”

“ _Gideon_.” Vivian sighs, pushes a strand of hair back behind her ear. “Really?”

“I was on vacation! I’m not missing my mama’s birthday, Vivian, that’s just _rude_.”

“And it means she won’t send you biscuits come Christmas.” Vivian sighs. “But that’s not what I’m talking about.” She pokes at the bag with a pen. “It’s –”

“Let’s play it safe,” Gideon insists.

“Artefact Storage is for dangerous, occult items,” Vivian points out. “This is neither dangerous nor occult.”

“Maybe not, but it’s part of the whole – the whole _mess_.” Gideon makes a vague gesture, wrist flapping limply with a quiet pop.

Vivian stares at the bag for a moment longer. “…Yeah, fine.” She sighs, and grabs the handle. “I’ll file it.”

Gideon gives her a grateful smile, and turns, walks away, shoving his hands into his pockets and falling into his habitual slouch.

Red. Probably decent quality, knowing Sasha. Brass bell that tinkles cheerfully when Vivian moves the bag.

She has to file a fucking _cat collar_ now.

//

There is something caught under Jon’s nail, and he can’t get to it.

//

“Jon, nail polish is supposed to keep you from biting your nails.”

Jon freezes, slowly looking up, hand still pressed to his mouth.

“It’s unsanitary,” Sasha points out.

Jon points to the bottle of hand sanitizer on his desk.

“Not even _that_ stops you? That’s got to taste awful.”

Jon shrugs, drops his hand. “It does, yes.” He glances down at his fingers, at the now chipped nail polish. “There’s just a bit of dirt I can’t get out.”

“So you’re going to _eat_ it.”

Jon huffs. “Do you have anything else to do beside harass me?” He asks dryly. “Like following up on the Richardson statement?”

Sasha sighs dramatically. “I mock because I care.”

“Follow up, Sasha.”

“ _Fine_.”

//

“How would a melody describe itself if asked?”

\--

There is something caught under Jon’s nail, and he can’t get to it.

He bites and bites and bites, but he can’t get to it, canines catching the skin under his nail again and again as he goes after it.

And then he gets it, grimaces as he swallows it. It feels hard between his teeth, though there’s no real taste beyond the nail polish that’s chipped off into his mouth.

But there’s something caught under Jon’s next fingernail. And he bites and bites and bites until he catches it, pulls it out with impatient force, spits it out because this one feels bigger and he doesn’t want to choke on it.

There’s something caught under Jon’s next fingernail.

And the next.

And the next.

And he spits out each one, going after the hard bit of shrapnel stuck under each nail, until he’s gone from little finger to thumb, ripping out each little stabbing shard.

Martin’s already gone to bed, but Jon wanted to finish his book. It’s hardly a _good_ book, relatively simple prose and predictable plot and… questionable implications in dynamics between characters, but it’s thick and it’s the one he started weeks back when he was first staying with Martin, and it’s now a matter of pride.

He didn’t finish it.

He got distracted. Because there was something caught underneath his nail that he couldn’t get to for the longest time.

And Jon glances down at his leg where he’d dropped the offending items.

And he feels the urge to hurl, violently.

He feels the wet on his hand now, slick and warm. He can smell it now, and see it in the yellow-tinged light. He can feel the pain in his fingers.

His nails are lying on his leg, neatly spread out, ripped from their beds by his own teeth, nail polish chipped by his biting.

Sasha had insisted on a top coat, Jon remembers. Because it would make the polish last longer, be more resilient.

She ought to find a new one.

Jon’s nail beds are bleeding, blood trickling down his hands and seeping into the cuff of the jumper that Angela had made him, the one that had taken her long, painful hours because she valued him, and it’s going to ruin it and he’d have to ask her to rip it out, rip the sleeves back and cut the ruined yarn that’s sure to be stained because he _ripped out his nails and gnawed his nail beds down to the bone_.

He pushes the sleeve up, gathers his nails in his uninjured hand, and rushes to the sink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jon rips his nails out without thinking
> 
> summary:  
> -Sasha shows up at Jon's apartment and gives him nail polish  
> -Timeskip to Monday, three weeks later; Martin gives Jon a pair of thick handknit socks to wear with his boots  
> -Sasha sees Michael in the flower shop, and is late to work.  
> -An Institute employee brings Jon's collar to Artefact Storage, where Vivian reluctantly accepts it and files it away.  
> and then the mutilation happens
> 
> extreme nail biting can lead to bleeding fingertips, but i want to emphasize that this is _not_ a depiction of normal nail biting -- this is a delayed result of the leitner.


	54. Tuesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The immediate ramifications of injury occur. 
> 
> Hugs are had by all. 
> 
> Sasha loses a bet.
> 
> Also, there are kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for disassociation, description of injury to hands (exposed bone, extensive bleeding). also sasha calls martin a "gay disaster"
> 
> this chapter starts immediately after the previous one
> 
> also no, the richardson statement is not our dear real estate agent. i,, licherally forgot that that's her last name lol, i just needed a name for the statement

Martin wakes without the comforting weight of Jon in his arms, without Jon clinging to him like a koala, without the secondary source of warmth.

It's not long since Martin went to bed, he thinks. Not too long – but it’s late, and they have work tomorrow.

So Martin stands, stretches, and quietly pads out of the bedroom on bare feet, grabbing his discarded hoodie as he leaves and pulling it on with a yawn.

"Are you going to go to bed tonight?" Martin asks as he wanders into the lit kitchen, not glancing to where Jon must be sitting on the couch, distracted by his book. "It's late. Are you turning into Sasha?"

And then he nearly trips, barely manages to catch himself on the counter. When Martin looks down, he sees Jon curled up on the floor, back pressed against a cabinet, left hand wrapped in a tea towel and clutched to his chest.

That towel had been yellow. Faded from years of use.

It's red, now.

Martin looks from Jon's hand to his face, feels his own face pale at the blank expression there.

And Jon tries to crack a smile, waves with his uninjured hand. “Hello, Martin.” His voice is calm, sedate, unaffected by any degree of pain.

The towel had been a faded yellow. Now it’s red. Now the leg of Jon’s pajama bottoms is smeared red. The cuff of his jumper, the jumper he’d barely taken off since he came home with it, is crusted with red.

And then Martin’s kneeling next to Jon, knees aching from where he must have thudded to the ground, and he has Jon’s towel-wrapped hand between his own. “What did you _do_?” he asks – _demands,_ more like, voice just this side of hysterical as he peels the rag away.

“I, ah. I – I suppose I should have taken Sasha more seriously.”

Martin doesn’t look at Jon, doesn’t try to read his expression.

And then the towel comes away from Jon’s hand, and Martin wishes that he had, because he can see the tips of Jon’s _bones_ , exposed and smeared with blood.

There’s a yellow fiber from the towel stuck to the tip of the bone in Jon’s thumb, Martin notes.

“You did this?” Martin asks, and he finally looks up, and sees the somewhat vacant look in Jon’s eyes, sees the lack of pain on his face. “ _You_ did this?”

“Yes, I – well. I have been biting my nails, haven’t I?”

Martin moves quickly, after that. He wraps the towel around Jon’s hand, barely spares time for an apologetic glance at Jon’s hiss of pain, and roughly manhandles Jon towards the door.

“What – Martin.” Jon digs his heels in. It barely does anything, light as he is, dazed as he is. “Martin, what are you doing?”

“A&E,” Martin says, stopping by the door to grab shoes for them both, steering Jon towards Martin’s own slippers because Jon’s hand is a bloody mess that is apparently self-inflicted because Jon somehow managed to rip his own fingernails out with – with what, his _teeth_? “I’m taking you to A&E, and I’m not letting you out of my sight until _this_ ,” he gestures at Jon in his entirety, “is all taken care of.”

Jon still looks dazed. His eyes aren’t really focused, and he doesn’t resist as Martin grabs his keys and both their wallets, drags Jon out the door.

//

Martin hadn’t been able to go back with Jon to speak with the doctors, to watch the nurse tend to Jon’s injured hands, to hear just what Jon would need to do to ensure they healed well.

He could guess. Keep it dry, keep it clean, keep it covered. Probably some kind of ointment.

A day off, considering Jon’s probably in shock. Since he tore off his own fingernails. With his teeth. And bit down to the bone.

…Maybe Martin’s projecting, wanting the day off. Jon would probably insist on going nonetheless, fumbling his way through work as best he can, touch-typing like a sixty-year-old, recording statements with a rolling cadence and ease to his voice and _satisfaction_ at the end that turns Martin’s stomach more than the contents of the statements themselves.

Because that’s Jon, isn’t it? He’d managed to work whilst they thought he was a cat, whilst his hands were injured before (good _god_ , it’s not a good year for Jon’s hands), whilst he was crippled by blisters. Blisters that he’d never gotten looked at, Martin thinks.

Because that’s Jon, isn’t it? He’d stay at work after being stabbed if he thought he could.

Martin’s probably projecting. But Jon had torn his fingernails off with his teeth, in some weird dissociative haze that Martin still can’t understand, because it didn’t stop with the nails. Biting his nails off – okay, according to Wikipedia, not _unheard_ of. But it didn’t stop with Jon’s nails.

Martin saw bones. Only the tips of bones, granted, but he saw bones.

He sighs, and closes the tab on dermatillomania. He may not be an actual researcher, but a bit of background knowledge that doesn’t come from condescending pamphlets would be a good idea. Probably. Maybe not.

And then his phone rings, and Martin nearly drops it in shock when Sasha’s name appears on the screen. He stumbles to his feet, wanders out of the waiting room as his phone vibrates in his hands, wanders through the doors and answers the phone once he’s out shivering in the cold winter air.

“Is Jon awake?” Sasha asks instead of saying hello.

“Um.”

“Look, I’d harass you about being a gay disaster,” Sasha begins, and Martin flushes.

“Hey!”

“Gran called me,” Sasha continues, as if Martin hadn’t spoken. There’s a seriousness to her voice that Martin hasn’t heard before, even when they were struggling with the statements that wouldn’t record digitally. “And she wants me to check on Jon.”

“…We’re at A&E,” Martin says after a moment.

“ _What_?” Sasha demands, and Martin thinks he can hear her stand, hear her quick footsteps.

“He, uh.” Martin grimaces. “He bit his nails.”

“Yeah, it’s a bit gross, but what’s the big deal?” Martin hears a lock click, a door open. Does Sasha sleep with her bedroom door locked?

“Well, he ripped them off.”

Sasha’s silent.

Then,

“Which A&E are you at?”

//

Sasha arrives before Jon’s released. She arrives with a thoroughly rumpled Tim in tow, both clad in pajamas anachronistically matched with heavy coats and whatever shoes must have been at hand. Also, Martin swears that the hat Tim’s wearing is one of Sasha’s.

“What _happened_?” Sasha demands, approaching with steps oddly heavy. She doesn’t stop at casual conversational distance – no, she walks directly into Martin’s space, grabs him in a tight hug that shocks Martin because she’s barely shorter than him, and also apparently she gives very good hugs, even though he gets a mouthful of sleep-tousled hair. Bed tousled hair. She probably hasn’t slept. Does she ever sleep?

And then a second pair of arms are holding both Martin and Sasha, squeezing tightly, and Martin smells Tim’s shampoo. Because it’s Tim holding them, pressed close against Martin’s back, chin hooked neatly on Martin’s shoulder.

And they stand there, surely a sight to any who cared look, but Martin himself can’t bother caring. Because he’d seen the bones of Jon’s fingers peeking out from torn flesh, and oh he’s crying now, isn’t he? Bad, that. He never cries by halves – either not at all or full, body-shaking sobs that burst out of him with enough force that he’s thrown up more than once.

They stand there, Martin sandwiched between Sasha and Tim, until his breathing slows.

“…Tim.” Sasha’s voice is flat. “Tim, you need to let go first.”

“ _Fine_.” Tim’s reluctant in drawing away, and his left hand grabs Martin’s own, and Martin’s heart twinges with relief.

Sasha’s reluctant, too, takes a small step back and roughly rakes her hands through her hair, thoroughly turning it into an even worse mess with one simple movement. “What happened?” she asks again, shoving her hands into her pockets and hunching her shoulders against the cold.

Martin tells them, as best he can. He talks about Jon staying up to finish his book, and coming out of the bedroom when he’d woken up without Jon, and finding Jon sitting on the floor in shock.

Sasha’s pale when Martin finishes talking. “He did it himself?” she asks.

Martin nods.

“ _Fuck_ ,” Tim mutters.

“Agreed.” Sasha sighs, and yanks roughly on one of her curls. “He still inside?”

“Ah, no.”

Martin stiffens, turns at Jon’s voice – or, tries to, and turns the wrong way and nearly ends up toppling when Tim doesn’t let go of his hand.

Jon’s skin is pallid, and his hand is thoroughly bandaged, and there’s a slight grimace on his face. “Hello.”

Sasha moves first, sweeping him into a crushing hug, curling around him and burying her face in Jon’s hair. “What,” Martin hears Sasha say, “the fuck, Jon?”

“…I don’t know,” Jon says, and though his voice is muffled by Sasha, Martin hears him just fine.

Tim squeezes his hand, and Martin spares a glance. There’s a tension to Tim’s posture, shoulders stiff and eyebrows drawn.

And so Martin tugs Tim forward – because Jon’s been more than receptive to affection, so maybe ensconcing him between them all would be nice? Wouldn’t cure anything, but maybe it would be nice for Jon. And the rest of them, because Martin doesn’t need to read minds to see how Tim’s feeling about this, but Jon. Maybe Jon would like it.

And if Martin had to judge by the way Jon melts into the hug, he does appreciate it.

//

Sasha’s gone out – gone somewhere, Jon missed her announcement, just suddenly found that she was no longer sprawled on the floor with him and Martin and Tim, hears the door close and the lock latch. He’s lying on his left side, bandaged hand resting awkwardly on Martin’s side, head pillowed on Tim’s arm. And periodically, he feels Tim press a careful kiss against his hair, the crown of his head, the back of his neck, his shoulder. Periodically, he feels Martin begin to shake, feels Martin’s hands tighten in his shirt.

There’s something here, Jon thinks. Something warm – beyond the heat shared between the three of them. He doesn’t think he wants to name it.

He doesn’t need to. Because regardless of Georgie’s teasing, he understands what it means when Martin presses a gentle kiss against his mouth in a purposeful movement, a movement that clearly wasn’t just Martin trying to kiss his cheek and missing the mark. And he understands what it means when Tim presses another gentle kiss against the crook of his neck, and then buries his face there, and doesn’t move.

//

Sasha sees him again when she ducks out in search of coffee, _real_ coffee, not anything instant. She still needs to call Angela, explain that yes, Angela’s hunch was correct and something had gone quite wrong with Jon. She sees the odd man sitting in a café she likes, hands wrapped around a cup that seems humorously small – but then Sasha glances again, and it’s normal, cup not overshadowed at all by the man’s hands.

She doesn’t stop to talk to him.

Because she gets a text from Tim, that Jon’s insisting on going to work, and Sasha can’t dawdle. Not if she wants to catch Jon back at his flat and be able to throttle him in the comfort of his own home.

//

“Polly Richardson is in a home in Edinburough,” Tim announces, strolling into Jon’s office without knocking. “And her son agrees that she has no history of psychiatric treatment.”

Jon hums quietly, awkwardly pressing the heel of his right hand against a piece of paper to steady it as he writes something down. “Thank you,” he says, glancing up. His hand aches, but he manages to summon a small smile for Tim.

They probably ought to talk about what happened earlier.

But that can wait.

Because Tim’s free with affection and Jon can’t complain about the escalation, can’t complain about what it probably means.

_Probably_ means. He’s reasonably certain he’s reading this right.

Because Tim’s walked around Jon’s desk and his cheeks are red and Jon’s a bit surprised nonetheless when Tim’s chapped lips are pressed against his own.

He doesn’t react, not immediately.

But Jon grabs Tim’s hand with his uninjured hand, and he guesses Tim reaches the same conclusion he did, because Tim offers a smile when he pulls away, and doesn’t initiate a conversation that will _have_ to happen between the three of them.

Jon’s grateful for that. They can talk later. Where Sasha can’t overhear, because this is not something he needs her to have information on.

//

Sasha passes Rosie’s desk with a pout on her face, and wordlessly hands over a twenty-pound note. Rosie gives a beatific smile, and doesn’t gloat.

//

“If I don’t go home with you, do you promise not to do something stupid?” Sasha asks conversationally, leaning against the doorway to Jon’s office with her arms crossed and a serious expression.

Jon stares for a moment.

“Well?”

“…I promise that I’ll go to bed on time and won’t try and cook,” he says.

“Good.” She shakes her head roughly, tugging on her ponytail.

“You never know how much you use your non-dominant hand until you can’t use it,” Jon offers, a small smile on his face.

Sasha doesn’t return it.

“Sasha?”

She walks into his office, closing the door behind him. “You know,” Sasha says conversationally, perching on a corner of his desk, “gran called me in the middle of the night, saying she had a bad feeling.”

“Grandparents can do that, I think.” Grandparents like Angela, Jon thinks. His own grandmother probably would have assumed that Jon could deal with whatever trouble he got himself into. Which, to be fair, he _did_ , though he did so with a degree of assistance.

“So I called her on lunch,” Sasha continues, “and told her what happened.”

“…oh.”

“She says to bring the sweater over this weekend,” Sasha says, “and that if something like this happens again, you’ll die a horrible death.”

“Understandable.”

“Provided I don’t get to you first.”

“That is also understandable.”

Sasha stares at him for a moment longer, eyes narrowed, and Jon resists the urge to fidget.

But Sasha sighs, hops off the desk, and walks around to give him a hug. “Don’t do that,” she commands. “I don’t want to see that kind of thing from you again, okay? Don’t get injured like that. I’ll end up with as much grey hair as you, and then I’ll have to dye my hair.”

“I think red would look good on you,” Jon suggests, and Sasha finally laughs.

//

Fire extinguishers.

Not what Sasha would have expected.

And getting a worm pulled out of her arm by a man with oddly sharp hands, hands that feel like wet leather, did not feel like anything Sasha wanted to think about.

//

They ought to talk about it.

They ought to do more than exchange quiet kisses, laying crammed in Jon’s small bed.

They don’t.

That conversation can happen later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can i write romance? debatable! but shit's gay, yall
> 
> also look!!! https://archiveofourown.org/works/21045671/chapters/61094941


	55. Wednesday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha makes a statement, and conversations are had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i know it's been a while but i can explain
> 
> no actual description of injuries in this one, but reference to treatment of injuries -- bandaging, splinting, tetanus shot -- and how it's difficult to function without use of your non-dominant hand. my sister's in nursing school and i asked her abt this, so i'm like. 31% certain it's relatively accurate.

The Archives are quiet in the morning.

Sasha supposes she shouldn’t find this odd, even as she passes Gideon, waves at him to leave the lights on as he packs away his mop.

“Mornin’, darlin,” Gideon says, drawl thick and voice quiet in the still Archives.

“Sasha,” Sasha reminds him, and Gideon offers an apologetic smile.

“Mornin’, Sasha. Sorry.”

Sasha shrugs. “I know. You and names. At least you didn’t call me ma’am this time.”

Gideon’s smile turns somewhat genuine, eyes crinkling at the memory. “Point. You good, or d’ya want me to stick around, keep you company ‘til someone else is in?”

Sasha shrugs again, yawning widely. “I’m good. You head out, Gideon. It’s getting early.”

Gideon offers a small wave and turns his music back on, returns his attention to packing away cleaning supplies. Sasha can smell the artificial orange scent added to whatever he used to clean the floors thick in the air, thick enough that she almost wishes she could bring candles into the Archives.

Better that smell than dirty floors, she knows, but it still is far from pleasant.

There’s a reason she’s in so early, of course. Besides Jon, nobody bothers to get to work multiple hours before they need to, especially not for a job as… interesting as theirs. Sasha’s reasonably certain in that, at least.

She’s also reasonably certain that Jon keeps his tape recorder on his desk. And the lock is easy to pick – old door, old lock; the only issue is when the door hinges stick slightly and she has to plant her feet firmly on the ground and yank, relieved that she’s wearing her heavy boots today.

The tape recorder isn’t on the disaster zone formerly known as Jon’s desk, a mess of papers and files and pens that would put the worst of Gertrude’s boxes to shame. No, it’s hidden away in the bottom drawer of his desk, along with various detritus including her favorite pen that had gone missing back in the last skirmish of The Pen War.

Bastard.

But Jon’s not here, not yet, so Sasha reclaims her pen and takes five of Jon’s own to go in the “Hostage” jar on her desk, along with the tape recorder and paper to write down her statement.

Because, unfortunately, she has information to record and relay. And she doesn’t want to wait and forget details.

Maybe she should make a PowerPoint.

It’s always easier to explain things, with such prep work done. Sasha always found it simpler, found that she was less likely to meander her way through the topic.

When she sits down, though, turns the tape recorder on, Sasha finds that the words come effortlessly. And she doesn’t ramble.

//

Martin’s relatively certain that he wakes second, because he’s curled up against Jon’s back close enough to get a mouthful of hair and also feel Jon’s breathing, and Jon isn’t breathing slow and deep. Tim is, though, pressed close enough to Jon’s front that Martin doesn’t think Jon could move if he wanted to.

Which, judging by precedent, Jon probably doesn’t.

“…Morning,” Jon says after a moment – quiet Polish, unaccented, fluent.

“Morning,” Martin says through a yawn. English. Because speaking Polish would make him curious about where Jon learned fluent Polish, and it’s too early to talk about language lessons.

He hesitates a moment, hand tensing where it’s twisted in the front of Jon’s old shirt.

Should he ask, Martin wonders? He never exactly learned how to flirt in Polish – he’s too awkward, really, and also the only people he really talked to were his cousins, which would be infinitely too awkward. And the boys at his babcia’s church, which. No.

Play it safe.

That’s always a good bet.

So Martin presses a gentle kiss to the top of Jon’s head – within easy reach, also probably simple enough to shrug off, should Jon be – less than reciprocal. Which Jon probably is at least content with it all, considering how he’d burrowed in close when Martin kissed him yesterday, and also hadn’t pushed Tim away when Tim did the same.

Jon doesn’t move away.

To be fair, he’s thoroughly sandwiched between Tim and Martin, trapped by Martin’s arm and one of Tim’s legs tangled between Jon’s own, and one of Tim’s arms reaching over him to drape over Martin’s side.

“…Martin, I can’t move.”

Which unfortunately raises a whole new fear in Martin, that maybe Jon’s just stuck between them because honestly, the bed is not designed for three people, more like one person and maybe a medium sized dog, and maybe Jon’s secretly claustrophobic and they’re going to give him a panic attack because he’s stuck and honestly, neither Martin nor Tim are particularly light and maybe they’re squishing him and he can’t breathe –

Jon grunts quietly as he shifts, twisting his torso in a way that makes Martin worry about the integrity of his skeletal system in addition to everything else that Martin’s presently worried about, and surely Jon’s about to awkwardly let him down and kick him out, and dear God, Martin would have to find another place to stay because he is not going back to his flat yet, and –

Jon lightly bumps his forehead against Martin’s chin.

“Martin, I can’t reach.”

Martin blinks down at Jon.

“Reach what?”

Jon’s expression turns vaguely unimpressed. “I can’t reach to kiss you, Martin. I –” And then Jon’s expression turns hesitant, eyebrows raising and the corners of his mouth twisting down awkwardly and Martin can read the same anxiety there that is presently coiling in Martin’s gut. “Unless you’d rather – not? I – if you let me go, I’m sure I can get out, if I’ve overstepped, or –”

Martin shuffles down, and kisses Jon.

It’s far from perfect, because Jon’s probably out of practice, if he ever had any practice, and Martin really doesn’t know what he’s doing, and also they both have morning breath, but it’s a gentle kiss nonetheless.

Martin probably ought to invest in chapstick, he thinks vaguely, as Jon pulls away and gives an awkward and hesitant smile that Martin’s probably mirroring.

Or Martin’s smile is a stupidly happy grin. He’s not sure.

Jon’s pupils are different now, too. Green eye with a pupil that looks almost like a slit, yellow with one that refuses to choose a shape and stick to it.

It gives Martin a headache.

But he decides that he doesn’t mind. Because they’re Jon’s eyes, and presently there’s a hesitantly happy look there.

Also, the lack of alarms means that they probably forgot to charge their phones, so that’s probably not good.

//

Tim does not feel particularly steady in his present position, teetering slightly at the edge of a very hard mattress, clinging to a small body with both affection and also a desperate need for some physical anchor so he doesn’t fall off the fucking mattress.

“Morning, Tim,” somebody says, and Tim makes a rather inarticulate grumbling noise. He’s reasonably certain that it’s too early.

No idea how early it is, but it’s too early.

“Tim, you’re about to fall off the bed,” somebody else says, and Tim grumbles again, attempting to shuffle forwards into some imaginary free space.

And one of his bedmates laughs quietly, tightens their grip on Tim’s side, which provides at least some stability.

Then –

Somebody kisses Tim’s cheek. Chapped lips and morning breath, but there’s a soft kiss nonetheless. And that makes Tim open one eye to peer at whoever decided to wake him up with that, because it’s admittedly pleasant in a way that he hasn’t felt in quite some time.

It’s Jon.

Because he went home with Jon and Martin after work, with strict instructions from Sasha to ensure that Jon doesn’t do anything stupid about his injuries. And then they’d gone to bed together, squeezed into Jon’s bed, and spent some indeterminate time cuddling and giving gentle kisses.

Well, Tim’s not complaining.

He leans forward himself, carefully kisses Jon. And takes small pleasure in the pleasantly surprised expression on Jon’s face.

And then Tim props himself up on one arm, leans over Jon, gives the same to Martin, because that’s what they’d done for some indeterminate amount of time whilst cuddling, the three of them exchanging kisses that were gentle and soft and comforting, a number of minutes that Tim hadn’t counted and a number of kisses that remained unknown.

“Morning,” Tim says as he pulls away, settles back down so he’s not in danger of crushing Jon. “How’s your hand?”

“I’ll be fine,” Jon says.

“Jon, that’s not what he asked,” Martin says, and Tim’s briefly surprised at just how bold Martin is – but then he glances at Martin and sees the blush already staining Martin’s cheeks tomato red.

“Yeah, Jon.”

“Tim,” Jon retorts, but his heart isn’t in it, and when Tim leans down to steal another kiss, he pulls away to see the beginnings of a smile in Jon’s eyes.

“Hand,” Tim reminds.

“…Uncomfortable,” Jon admits.

“Well then.” Tim rolls out of bed, lands on the floor with a slightly uncomfortable thump.

“Tim!”

“Eh.” Tim waves Martin off. “Come on, painkillers for Jon. And breakfast. What time is it?”

“6:23.”

“Uh-huh, I’m sure.” Tim shakes his head with a smile. “Where did your meds end up?”

“Ah, kitchen? I think? Or table.”

“You know the exact time, but not where we dropped your painkillers. Priorities, Jon,” Tim teases.

“I don’t know what food we have,” Martin says, ushering Tim and Jon out of the bedroom. “I – we were supposed to stop yesterday, I think.”

“Yes, I – we did forget, didn’t we?” Jon shrugs, awkward and bird-like. “Sorry.”

“Got a bit distracted,” Tim agrees, flicking on the light in the kitchen. “Holy shit, it’s actually 6:23. Lucky guess.”

“Mm.” Jon sighs. “Perhaps we should stop somewhere for breakfast? I’d like –”

“We’re not going to work at 6:23 in the morning,” Tim cuts in. “I refuse.”

Jon turns to Martin, who just shrugs. “It is a bit early,” he points out.

Jon looks between Martin and Tim and back again, and sighs again, this time in defeat. “I suppose it is. We just –”

“An hour won’t fix Gertrude’s mess,” Tim says, opening the fridge. “Do you subsist off of soup and eggs?”

“Sometimes egg drop soup,” Jon quips.

“Ha.” Tim shakes his head, pulls out a carton of milk. Just because he could take his meds dry didn’t mean he liked to. “Also, considering your desk, you can’t complain about Gertrude.”

“I know where everything is!”

Martin lightly shoulders past Tim, pulling out the carton of eggs.

“Jon, meds,” Martin reminds him, grabbing a bowl and skillet from the cabinets.

“Hey now, you’re not doing the seasoning –” Tim insists, shutting the fridge and taking a cup from the drying rack for milk. “Oh, Jon, your hand – do you need help?”

Jon looks down at his wrapped hand with vague dismay. Three cloth bandages and splint extending just barely past his fingertips, trapping his hand in a loose curve that makes Tim’s hand twinge in sympathy at the cramp that must surely come and go.

“I should be fine,” Jon says slowly, “but if you – if you wouldn’t mind helping me wrap the bandages again when I’m done?”

Tim flashes Jon a thumbs up, and promptly shoulders his way past Martin to grab the bowl where Martin’s stirring the eggs in order to add proper seasoning. “Gotcha.”

And Jon vanishes back down the hall on quiet feet, sleep-mussed braid swinging slightly with each step.

Martin spares Tim a rather irritated glance as Tim grabs the bottle of hot oil, knocking in just a few drops. He doesn’t know the brand, but “Fire oil” was pretty descriptive.

“Tim,” Martin says.

“I’m not putting that much in,” Tim says absently, sprinkling in pepper and salt and garlic and pepper flakes.

“That’s – that’s not what I was talking about,” Martin says, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Uh –”

“If you’re going for what I think you’re going for,” which is to say, an emotional conversation that definitely needs to happen but Tim definitely isn’t looking forward to, “then we should definitely wait for Jon.”

Kisses as gentle as the ones they’d exchanged weren’t the kind that you’d exchange with a casual hookup, usually. Smiles as gentle as the ones they’d exchanged weren’t the kind that you’d exchange with a casual hookup, usually.

Also, to be fair, they hadn’t hooked up. Shared a bed in a literal sense. So. Emotional conversation.

That probably needed to be had.

But Jon needed to be present, and not just for Tim to help rewrap the bandages over his splint.

//

Jon did not like dry shampoo.

It left an ashy tint to his hair, and after one or two uses it didn’t do anything to help with the oil buildup, and in general left him feeling sticky and grimy and disgusting because it usually meant that he also couldn’t shower.

And he couldn’t shower right now. Because he had no rubber gloves, no rubber bands dense enough to wrap around said rubber glove to ensure that no water would touch his injured fingers.

Needless to say, Jon was not looking forward to the next few days, to stumbling his way through showering with one hand, to washing his hair with one hand. And his braid would be out of the question – Sasha couldn’t be trusted to do anything approaching functional with it, and braiding necessitated both hands.

One never guessed how much they used their nondominant hand, Jon muses as he shoves his hand carefully back into the splint, until one couldn’t use their nondominant hand.

The ointment stings and his hand aches and his arm aches from the tetanus shot and the painkillers take a few moments to kick in, but Jon emerges from the bathroom with loose hair full of dry shampoo and clean teeth to the smell of cooking eggs and brewing tea.

And he emerges to the sight of Tim and Martin weaving around each other in the small kitchenette, Martin dealing with three cups of tea and Tim looking after eggs and toast.

It’s a pleasant sight. One that Jon doesn’t want to interrupt.

But his hand throbs again, and so Jon clears his throat. “Ah, Tim?”

Tim turns, eyebrows raised. “Ready for help?”

“If you don’t mind.”

“’Course not.” Tim grabs the bandages and waves for Jon to take a seat, ambling over to the table. “How tight?”

“Very.”

“Useful,” Tim says, rolling his eyes with a degree of fondness behind the sarcasm. “Alright, hold still.”

And Tim moves quickly, wrapping and securing the bandages, and returns to the stove. “You’re not allowed to help,” he says over his shoulder as Jon stands.

Jon sits back down.

“Thank you.” Tim pokes at the eggs with a spatula, and then grabs down three plates. “Martin, tea?”

“Almost done.”

And then the cooking is done, and Martin and Tim have set out food and tea and are sitting at the table with Jon, and there’s a bit of light beginning to show through the window, and Jon feels… content, is perhaps the best way to describe it.

Slightly grimy, but content.

Hesitant, of course, because there’s a bit of tension yet in the air between the three of them – there is a conversation that needs to be had, one that they can only put off for so long, but that small bit of dread isn’t enough to ruin the atmosphere. Yet.

So it’s Jon himself who shatters the silence, quietly putting his fork and knife down and looking from Martin to Tim.

Tim freezes, mug of tea halfway to his mouth.

Martin doesn’t notice until Tim elbows him sharply, and when he does, it’s when he’s dusting toast crumbs from his fingers.

“Ah.” Jon makes a vague motion with his injured hand.

“Painful?” Tim guesses, and Jon might be reading into things that don’t exist, but he thinks Tim might sound just a bit desperate.

“I – well, yes, a bit, but –” Jon shrugs. “We probably ought to…” Another vague gesture.

Tim groans. “Can’t we do this after work?”

“Will we?” Jon points out.

His heart is in his throat and his stomach is quickly on its way to staging revolt and purging both breakfast and painkillers.

Martin buries his face in his hands.

“Martin?” Jon ventures hesitantly. “I just –” he rests his hands in his lap. “We ought. We –”

“Ought?” Tim suggests.

“Tim, please.” Jon sighs. “I suppose we – well, it’s not mandatory.”

“I don’t think we will, if we put it off,” Martin agrees, peering through his fingers.

“Doesn’t sound that bad,” Tim mutters.

“We don’t have to,” Jon says quickly. “I – I’m sorry, this isn’t necessary, you’re right. I just – I. Well. If we do want to have this – a conversation of this kind, I suppose, I’d rather do it here. Because.” He shrugs, smiles awkwardly. “I don’t need Sasha giving me grief, frankly.”

That, at least, startles a short laugh out of Tim.

“Fair,” Tim admits. “She has blackmail on all of us, though. What’s a bit more?”

“Still more than she has right now,” Martin mumbles, finally pulling his hands away from his face.

“I.” Jon shrugs. “I just –” A grimace twists into being on his face. “I suppose, it’s not necessary, exactly. But I thought – it might. Help. It might help.”

Tim stares at a particularly interesting bit of wall behind Jon’s shoulder.

“…I can talk,” Martin offers. “Tim?”

“Tim, you’re right, it’s not –”

“Yeah.” Tim sighs, and looks at Jon fully, makes eye contact. “Yeah, I can talk.”

And then silence reigns.

Tim’s looking at Jon, Martin’s still looking at the table, and Jon’s gaze keeps on skittering between the two of them.

Tim breaks the silence, in what Jon thinks is a moment of sheer irony, considering his reluctance.

“What are we?”

Martin’s jaw clenches.

“Besides what Sasha would call disasters?” Tim says dryly.

“…Can we stop talking about Sasha?” Jon asks. “She’s not – relevant, I suppose.”

“What, don’t want your only female friend being the topic of complicated emotional conversations?” Tim jokes.

“This isn’t that complicated,” Martin says to the table.

“Yeah, which is why none of us can deal with it.”

Jon sighs. “…Significant others?” he suggests quietly. “I just – I feel – it seems.” He shrugs helplessly. “Yesterday, and last night…”

“I understand,” Tim says. “Martin?”

Martin nods. “Yeah. I – well. Yeah, I – same, I think? If we’re all on the same page.”

Tim coughs quietly. “So, uh – significant others. Sounds good to me?”

“Are you just saying that so the conversation can end?” Jon asks before he can think better of it, words quick and blunt.

But Tim just shrugs in response. “Hey, if we’re doing this, we might as well go through everything.”

Martin groans. “Not before work,” he pleads. “We – we’re something. So that’s enough, and we can figure things out from here, after work.”

Jon looks over at Tim, then at Martin, and the beet red color of his cheeks and ears. He hasn’t brushed his hair yet, Jon notes, and there’s still a bit of an imprint from the pillow on his cheek.

“We can wait to go over details,” Jon agrees. “Tim?”

“I am absolutely down with waiting to go over details.” Tim shrugs. “Though. What are you two comfortable with? In general.” He nudges Martin. “Don’t want to offend your ex-Catholic sensibilities.”

Martin finally makes eye contact with Tim in order to give him an unimpressed, disapproving look.

“Hand holding?” Jon offers, then glances down at his bandaged hand. “…In eight to twelve months, according to the doctor.”

Tim snorts at that. “Martin?”

“…Yes,” Martin says quietly. “Nothing – nothing big, though? In public? Hugs and hand holding and – and small kisses, that’s okay, but –” he shrugs, making a face.

“Nothing you wouldn’t do in front of your grandmother,” Tim finishes.

“My grandmother is a lapsed Catholic.”

“Nothing you wouldn’t do in front of my grandmother,” Tim amends.

“Your grandmother briefly converted to Mormonism,” Jon points out.

Tim gives a mocking glare. “I’m running out of people, Jon. Your grandmother?”

Jon pulls a face.

“In front of Sasha, then,” Tim says exasperatedly – but Martin’s smiling now, blush receding just a bit, so Jon can’t complain. Not now. Not with a term put to this dynamic, quantifying it and confirming it.

More discussions will have to follow, Jon knows. His time with Georgie confirmed that. But there’s time for that. Later. After work. Which…

“We probably should get ready to leave,” Jon points out, standing.

“Maybe, but you sit down!” Tim orders, standing himself. “You can’t wash dishes like that, and I’m not going to explain to Sasha why you’re back in A&E!”

Jon sits, awkwardly sheepish expression on his face. “Point taken.”

//

Jon walks through the door to the Archives, sees Sasha, and his blood runs cold.

Because Sasha is sprawled in her chair, one foot propped up against her desk, and she doesn’t comment on how Tim’s hovering close to Jon’s back or how Martin’s holding Tim’s hand, even though she obviously takes the sight in. No, there is no mischief in her eyes, her expression serious in a way that doesn’t bode well.

“So,” Sasha says after a moment. “Jon, I’m about to ruin your day.” She waves a tape at him. “To your office, because I’m not doing this here.”

//

Jon stares down at his desk.

At least he has a name, now, for the thing that took glee in tormenting him multiple times. And creating doors where doors should not be possible.

“Well then,” he sighs, looking up. “Are you alright?”

Sasha raises an eyebrow. “Really? You look like you just saw a ghost, and you’re asking if I’m alright?”

“Sasha, we’ve well established that my priorities are skewed,” Jon says dryly. “You had a worm pulled out of your arm by a being with knife-like fingers. I think my dread can wait.”

Sasha shakes her head. “At least we have some information,” she points out. “Fire extinguishers. Weird, but understandable, I guess.” She pauses. “Alright, not understandable, but nothing about this is, so let’s give up on that concept.”

Jon huffs a small laugh. “Yes, I suppose that’s a good idea. I’ll speak with Elias, see about getting more extinguishers. It wouldn’t do for us to be caught unaware, with such a… simple solution.”

“When in want of a hammer,” Sasha agrees. “Or fire extinguisher, I guess.”

“Could be used as a hammer, if you’re precise enough.”

Sasha lets out a brief snort. “I’ll keep that in mind if I need to break down a wall, do some renovation.”

“I think the Archives could do with a more open floor plan, don’t you?”

//

Elias agrees to buy more fire extinguishers.

He offers nothing else.

Jon can’t help a feeling of betrayal, not when he still remembers how careful Elias was after the being – Michael – trapped him in those hallways.

But that feeling does nothing but get Jon a raised eyebrow. So he doesn’t push.

//

No more conversations are had that night.

Tim isn’t blind. Neither is Martin. They both see how shaken Jon is from what Sasha tells him, how irritated he is from the conversation with Elias, and both agree – all three agree, because Tim asks him outright – that the second conversation should wait a bit.

“I prefer the edge,” Tim says casually, leaning against the door as Martin scoots as close to the wall as possible. “If you’re down with that?”

Jon gives him a small smile. “That’s fine with me,” he says, clambering in after Martin. “Ah, should we maybe – fewer blankets, perhaps? Considering. Three of us, after all.”

Tim shrugs. “We can deal with that later,” he says, waving a dismissive hand, and climbs in after Jon. “Goodnight.”

“Night,” Martin says quietly.

“Goodnight,” Jon offers, pressing his back against Martin’s front and resting his injured hand on Tim’s side – both practical and as a form of soft contact.

Tim grins at them both, and turns off the lamp.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> debatable romance writing continues! 
> 
> and yeah, nails do grow back if they're completely removed -- it usually takes 6-8 months, but considering the damage was more extensive than that, i tacked on a few more months. my sister had no explanation for time frame and hardcore judged me for the question.


	56. Thursday and Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets a coworker before work. 
> 
> Sasha makes an important discovery.
> 
> A Statement is given. 
> 
> Tim and Martin both have time to reflect. 
> 
> Jon is interrogated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _i know it's been a while but i can explain --_

Jon does not like the smell of latex.

No allergy, thankfully – he just doesn’t care for the smell, or the texture, or the sensation of the glove on his hand.

It’s infinitely worse, though, when the glove is awkwardly pressing against the bandages on his fingers, which are in turn pressing against his injuries, but –

Well, the alternative is going without washing his hair or showering, which. No. He hates have _dirt_ under his nails; going without showering is infinitely worse.

So, a latex glove. With a hairtie wrapped twice around his wrist, so no water can get to his bandages.

Thank god Sasha isn’t in the flat, Jon muses; the Michael Jackson jokes would be _unending_.

Dear god, how is he going to braid his hair?

//

“’Morning, Archivist,” Gideon says, sidling past Jon with mop in hand.

“Good morning,” Jon says absently, slipping off his scarf and awkwardly unbuttoning his coat with one hand.

“What’d’ya do?” Gideon asks, gesturing to Jon’s hand with a frown.

Jon frowns awkwardly, pausing. “Ah. Bit of an accident,” he says, shrugging.

“Mm. Sucks.” Gideon shakes his head. “Budge over, please?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Jon mumbles, returning his attention to his coat. “You, ah. Never realize how much you use your non-dominant hand until you can’t use it, don’t you?”

“Yeah, found that,” Gideon agrees. “Fucked up my hand a while back, pinched the skin on this bastard –” he lightly thunks the cart with his right hand, “—and left me with a bandage for two weeks, and boy did that make everything difficult.”

“Cleaning supplies?” Jon guesses.

“Fuckin’ _cleaning supplies_.”

Jon laughs. “I can imagine.”

Gideon shakes his head, puts the mop away and turns to push the cart back to the closet. “You want me to stick around?” he offers, glancing over his shoulder at Jon and raising an eyebrow.

Jon shakes his head. “No, I’m – I’m fine, Gideon. Thank you.” He glances at Gideon’s hoodie. “‘Not John McCain, 2008?’”

“Look, we weren’t sure who the candidate was gonna be for a while…”

Jon smiles slightly as Gideon launches into a rambling spiel, touching on electoral politics and the election and Palin’s drama, with forays into commentary on gender politics and charisma and family reputations.

It’s not new information. Jon’s heard Gideon talk about this before, heard him going on and on while loitering outside smoking, back before Jon quit. (Which, admittedly, Jon had quit in part because Gideon always seemed to be there when Jon wanted to smoke, and Gideon could _not shut up_.)

But it’s not like Jon has anything immediately pressing to do. It will be a few hours yet before Martin and Tim and Sasha arrive – Martin and Tim in particular, considering how they revolted and refused to come to work with Jon. They’d stumbled all the way from the bed to the kitchen, lasted long enough to make tea, and then stumbled to the couch, where Tim found one of Jon’s newer blankets and promptly fell back asleep on top of Martin. And Sasha arrives at the same time every day – namely, a time significantly _after_ Jon. Despite the numerous texts clearly declaring that she’s awake.

So Jon listens to Gideon ramble, listens to the details that he hadn’t heard about, listens to the verbose and somewhat meandering metaphors. Because it’s interesting.

//

“Sasha, I would like to say for the record,” Jon says quickly as Sasha appears in the doorway to his office, “that I did not arrive at an indecent time, which Tim and Martin can confirm as they are aware of when I left.”

Sasha’s eyes light up.

“…Which they know because they, uh, Snapchatted me?” Jon tries. “At – seven in the morning.” That’s a decent time to get to work. Probably.

“Bullshit.” Sasha enters his office, plunks her bag down on the desk. “If you won’t give me details I’ll get them from Martin.”

Jon groans, and buries his face in his uninjured hand. There’s no point in obfuscating. “We are dating,” he says to his palm. “And that is all I will tell you.”

“I’m so proud of you!” Sasha reaches over and pats Jon’s head.

“Don’t touch my hair.”

Sasha pulls her hand back. “Sorry. Still proud of you for being a functional person with emotions!”

That, Jon muses, might be a _bit_ far. Georgie would argue such, at least, and Jon can’t help but feel that Georgie was correct then and remains correct now.

“So, who promoted the discussion?” Sasha prompts, and Jon hears the noise of her propping her feet up on his desk. “Was it Tim?”

“It was not.”

“So it was you?”

“Sasha, I think you have work to do?” Jon says, lifting his head from his hand. “Such as helping Tim discover which son received Olive Hendrickson’s paperwork?”

Sasha sighs, flopping backwards in her chair and turning her eyes skyward in exasperated despair. Then she dropped the act, sitting back up, and raising her eyebrows at Jon. “We visiting gran this weekend?”

There’s no question as to what that question is leading to, what Sasha is planning on doing – what she is planning on calling Angela and telling her. Because Angela can draw answers out of Jon with ease, as much ease as he had when he asked her about –

Well, when he ended up getting answers about –

When she talked about puzzles. And got a very long answer with very little effort. And Angela needs the same amount of effort, if not less, to pull answers out of Jon.

“Yes, Sasha, and I will go over the entire sordid tale then and not a moment before.”

Sasha’s grin widens, and Jon thinks that this is what sheep feel like before a wolf rips them to shreds. “Wonderful!” she crows, pulling her feet from his desk and standing. And she pauses, gleeful expression slipping from her face, tilting her head and looking closely at him.

Jon resists the urge to fidget, which is truly a worryingly common occurrence where Sasha is concerned.

“You doing okay?” she asks, nodding towards Jon’s hand. “You – you okay? You need help at all?”

“I –” Jon sighs. “I’ll be fine, Sasha. I’ll learn how to manage.”

“I’ll practice on my hair for a while, if you want help with yours?” she offers. “I know I’m not the _best_ , but –”

“Sasha, I have seen your attempts.” Jon smiles despite himself at the memory, at the thought of Sasha’s difficulty taming her curls into any kind of braid and the pictures he’s gotten of the results. “You’ll need quite a bit of practice.”

Sasha sighs, and there’s no theatrics there, no dramatic slumping of her shoulders or exaggerated shaking of her head. “I just don’t want you to be stuck with loose hair for however long your hand will take.”

“Eight to twelve months.”

“Eight to twelve months.” Sasha offers a smile. “I think I’ll be able to braid before the twelve month mark, don’t you?”

//

The man sitting across from Anna smiles pleasantly as he clicks his pen. “Alright, I'm Tim. We need name, a way to contact you, and then we’ll start on your statement,” he says, putting pen to paper and raising his eyebrows at Anna.

Anna clears her throat. “Ah. Annamaria Ysolde Gilbreth.”

His handwriting is neat cursive, flowing easily across the page as he takes down her phone number – takes down her phone number without a hint of a leer or smarmy grin, which is something Anna _immensely_ appreciates. He may be attractive, but there are personality traits that a pretty face can’t make up for. Because he’s definitely too old for her.

She doesn’t want to be here.

But Evie’s sitting on the steps outside and will absolutely drag Anna back in by the hair if Anna tries to flake out again, so Anna clears her throat.

“Statement regarding…?” the man prompts.

“Um. A –” Anna clears her throat.

“You need me to get you something to drink?” he offers. “My coworker makes excellent tea.”

“I’m allergic,” Anna blurts. She’s _not_ , but nor is she taking any food from someone she doesn’t know, regardless of how nice he may be.

The man smiles sympathetically. “Alright then. Whenever you’re ready, Annamaria.”

“Um. So, there was this man on the subway, who. I thought was a cat? But, clearly wasn’t a cat, you know?”

The emotions that speed through the man’s eyes would be humorous if Anna weren’t sitting across from him, sweating nervously, gripping the edge of her seat with one hand and her keys with the other, ready to punch anything that scared her and then run away as fast as she could move.

Surprise.

Shock.

Horror.

Worry.

Resigned acceptance.

All flashed through his eyes in under a second, and he turned his attention fully to the paper with an expression that could be best described as _this might as well_ _happen._

“Statement of Annamaria Ysolde Gilbreth, regarding a man she thought was a cat,” he sighs. “Start whenever, Annamaria.”

“I first saw him when I was on my way to school one morning…”

Evie had promised to buy her coffee tomorrow morning if she did this, Anna reminds herself. And a pastry. She could do this.

//

“Jon,” Elias says with a smile. “Here, sit. How are you? And –” he glances at Jon’s hand. “I do hope you’re alright.”

Jon clears his throat, tugging awkwardly at the sleeve of his jumper in an attempt to cover just a bit more of his cast and bandages. He doesn’t sit. “Yes, thank you, Elias. I’m quite alright.”

“Ah, good.” Elias glances from Jon to the chair across from his desk once, and doesn’t comment. “Now, as to your request about the fire extinguishers…”

Jon clenches his jaw. “I believe Sasha’s statement is genuine,” he says, “as she has been nothing but reliable –”

Elias holds up a hand. “That is not what I was going to say, Jon. No, I simply believe that while the CO2 fire extinguishers will be a good solution, they are rather… shall we say, _localized_. And were there to be a widespread issue with Prentiss, I do not think that they would be sufficient.”

“Are you saying there’s no point in getting them?” Jon asks, raising an eyebrow.

Elias smiles genially. “No, that is not what I am saying. However, I spent some time last night doing my own bit of research. There are fire suppressant systems that can do the same as CO2 extinguishers but, of course, on a much wider scale.” His expression turns vaguely expectant. “Do you have any thoughts on this? It will take a bit of time to have it installed, of course, but until then I suspect that the extinguishers will function well enough.”

“…Yes, Elias. Thank you.” Jon gives a small smile. “Thank you. I think that will be a very good idea.”

//

“Where’s Jon’s tape recorder?” Tim asks, pausing by Sasha’s desk with a new statement clutched in his hand. “Got one I want to record.”

“What, you’re not going to try and record it digitally?” Sasha frowns at him. “You usually _try_ at least.”

“This one is genuinely spooky, I promise,” Tim says grimly.

“How do you know?”

He opens the file and pushes it towards Sasha, tapping at the first line.

_Statement of Annamaria Ysolde Gilbreth, regarding a man she thought was a cat._

“…I’ll distract him, you steal the tape recorder,” Sasha says. “And then we hide the statement?”

“And then we hide the statement,” Tim confirms. “Maybe we should stick it in the bread box that had Gertrude’s trashy romance novels.”

“Or we could fold it up and put it _inside_ Gertrude’s trashy romance novels.”

Tim grins. “I knew there’s a reason I keep you around.”

“Fuck you, I’m delightful,” Sasha retorts, standing and stretching.

Tim just laughs.

//

“…We will be doing absolutely no follow-up on this case, as all four of us can attest to its validity.” Tim sighs. “Recording ends.”

He’s absolutely not paid enough to deal with this.

He’s not even paid in access to research material about clowns and circuses and skinning and flaying and historical instances thereof, because there is an _unfortunate_ lack of books surrounding that in the Institute.

Minimal salary, not enough books, far too much stress.

Tim’s beginning to understand why Jon’s going grey.

…Well, he _did_ get two boyfriends out of it, so perhaps for the moment it’s not the worst. A Polish ex-Catholic with awkward smiles and curly hair who has gentle hands and a knack for making tea better than Tim’s ever had it, and a prickly Archivist who enjoys simple physical contact as much as Tim, enjoys the simple company of sitting next to each other, pressed together from shoulder to hip, nothing more.

Tim ejects the cassette, and sighs.

Maybe Martin would enjoy going to a teahouse?

//

Martin knows that, in all likelihood, after Prentiss is dealt with, he will go back to his own flat. Or, get a new flat, really, considering he’s literally moved his things into storage and didn’t renew his lease. Probably ought to start looking around soon, considering his price range (low) and the price of rent in London (high).

But Jon isn’t kicking him out yet. Judgmental looks at Martin’s shampoo-conditioner-body wash aside, Jon isn’t kicking him out.

Quite the opposite, Martin thinks.

Well, Martin _knows_ , really, as he presses his back to the wall as close as he can get and holds Jon close and rests a hand on Tim’s side. Because sharing a bed is very much the opposite of kicking someone out, really.

He’ll need to invest in a heated blanket after this, when he gets his own flat again and has to deal with sleeping without the warmth of another body.

But he’ll deal with that later.

Because right now, he can press a gentle kiss against Jon’s head, and squeeze Tim’s side comfortingly, and that’s enough.

And smile at Tim’s yelp, because _apparently_ Tim is somewhat ticklish.

//

Jon’s hair is down.

Angela’s not quite sure if she’s ever seen him in person with his hair down, hair that is somewhat frizzy and slightly mussed, clamped down just a bit by a neatly cabled hat she remembers giving Sasha some years ago. The video, she thinks, when he was so badly injured – perhaps she saw him with his hair down in that?

But she smiles widely nonetheless, opens the door wide, steps out of the way. “Come in, come in,” she orders, waving Sasha and Jon in. “It’s cold.”

They obey, and Sasha’s already hung her coat up and shucked her heavy boots and is halfway down the hall by the time Angela notices Jon’s hand.

“What _happened_?” she demands, taking a step forward and making as if to take his hand, to bring the bulky bandages up to inspect them – but Jon flinches slightly, still only halfway through unbuttoning his coat, and so Angela resists the urge.

“I had a bit of an accident,” Jon says, and Angela resists the urge to shake him until his Fear-touched brain finally sorts itself out.

“ _Clearly_ ,” Angela says. “When? What was it? How bad?”

Sasha’s returned back down the hallway, Angela notes.

“Gran,” she says quietly, “let’s go get tea and then we can talk about Jon’s hand – and his _new boyfriends_ – over tea and biscuits.”

The mention of boyfriends does not slip by Angela, nor does Jon’s glare, but nor does it distract from Jon’s injury – which apparently was bad enough that Sasha, poor dear, thinks that Angela needs some kind of emotional shield against.

As if Sasha hadn’t been present when she gave her statement, hadn’t heard what Angela had done to get to this point.

Whatever had happened to Jon, Angela _knows_ it is not enough to scare her. Not after what she had seen and done.

//

“Why?” Angela asks, looking directly at Jon.

Jon is busy staring at his mug of tea. “I don’t know,” he says quietly. “I – ” he cuts himself off with a sigh. “I don’t know.”

Angela has a vague guess, thinks it may have something to do with how his eyes still brightly contrast with each other, but she’s not in the business of hypothesizing about things she doesn’t understand. “You have a treatment plan?”

“Yes.”

Angela sighs. “Well.” She offers a small smile. “I guess I’ll have to have Sasha wind my yarn.”

“ _Gran!_ ”

“Now.” Angela’s smile widens, and she pushes the plate of biscuits towards Jon. “Tell me about these boyfriends of yours?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter sunday or monday, edits permitting, so yay?
> 
> also yeah so there's not going to be any description of jon's injuries from hereon out, but how he functions without the use of his hand _will_ come up periodically. less so after this chapter, i think, since i've established how jon's working around it, but it will probably continue to show up every once in a while


	57. Monday, days succeeding Monday, and a timeskip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha has difficulties. Many, many difficulties. 
> 
> Gideon appears. 
> 
> Jon also has difficulties. 
> 
> Tim is useful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah so fun fact when i first started this i was like "yeah i'm not really gonna use any ocs, because canon has enough characters for me to work with, really"  
> and i introduced vivian and i was like "yeah she'll just be a one-off character, really, and sasha's honestly becoming an oc, so really that should be the limit"  
> and then i realized. that during season 1. there are SIX CHARACTERS. one of whom is elias so really he only counts as half a character and another is jane prentiss, so :/
> 
> EDIT: cw for smoking

Tim wakes up with his hand buried in Jon’s hair, fingertips resting against his scalp, palm cradling the back of his head.

Jon’s awake, because _of course_ he is, and his eyes blink open when Tim’s hand twitches involuntarily, and his gaze practically pins Tim in place.

“…Sorry,” Tim whispers, quiet enough so as not to wake Martin, who – is probably still asleep? He hasn’t said anything, so Tim’s reasonably certain on that. “Here, I can –”

“No, it’s – it’s fine, Tim.”

Tim narrows his eyes at Jon, and then thoroughly ruins his doubtful expression with a massive, jaw-creaking yawn. “You sure?”

“Yes, Tim.” Jon raises his eyebrows. “I can set boundaries, you know.”

Tim shrugs. “Just wanted to make sure. Don’t want to bring up bad memories, you know?”

Jon sighs, and presses his head back into Tim’s palm. “I’m sure, Tim. You’re fine.”

//

Three even chunks.

Sasha’s certain it should not be this difficult.

Maybe it would be easier on somebody else. Maybe it would be easier if she had straightened her hair. Maybe it would be easier if her fingers hadn’t suddenly lost every ounce of dexterity they had.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

At present, though, it is distinctly _not easy_.

//

“Pardon, sir,” Gideon says, stepping around Elias and dragging his cart behind him. “And, mornin’.”

“Gideon,” Elias says, not bothering to even glance in Gideon’s direction. “I do hope you weren’t smoking on the premises.”

“I wasn’t,” Gideon says. He hasn’t smoked in months – he just can’t get the smell out of his hoodies, so really, the question is completely unnecessary. He doesn’t even carry his lighter anymore.

“Good.” And Elias finally glances in Gideon’s direction, long enough to bestow an unimpressed look that is probably intended to make Gideon feel small and insignificant.

Unfortunately for Elias, Gideon’s worked food service. Those looks don’t work on him.

“…Pardon, sir,” Gideon repeats, and walks away. Because it’s that or bitching Elias out, and Gideon wants to keep his job.

//

There’s a small thunk in the bathroom, the sound of a plastic bottle being knocked over, and a short burst of profanity that – alright, Martin’s not Catholic anymore, but dear _God_ he thinks his ears might bleed if he hears something like that again.

“You alright?” Tim calls after a moment, mug of tea paused halfway to his mouth.

“Fine!” Jon calls back, voice slightly annoyed and slightly flustered.

Tim turns his gaze to Martin, shrugs, and takes a sip of tea.

“Should we…?” Martin trails off, glancing from Tim to the general direction of the bathroom door and back again.

“If he wants help, he’ll ask.”

Martin shrugs, and turns his attention back to his breakfast.

Then –

“Tim, do you smell bergamot?”

Tim sighs. “We should probably go help.”

//

“Vivian, that’s a cat collar.”

Vivian sighs and rests her head on the table. “Yeah. I know.”

“Why is there a _cat collar_ here?”

“Well.” Vivian sits up with a groan, dragging her hand down her face. “Gideon dropped it off.”

Richard stared at the collar. “ _Why_?”

“Remember when everybody thought the Archivist was a cat?”

Richard grimaces. “Not the worst thing we’ve dealt with,” he mutters.

“Anyway, that –” Vivian points at the collar. “—was the Archivist’s collar. And Gideon dropped it off… last week?” She shrugs. “Can’t remember. He wouldn’t leave until I agreed to file it.”

Richard sighs. “Shame we don’t have a section for idiocy.”

“That’s called the Archives, Richard.”

//

Jon dislikes having his hair down.

Braids are self-contained, difficult to accidentally grab in day-to-day activities, and most importantly, they make his hair just short enough that he doesn’t practically _sit on it_. Or catch it on the arm of his office chair. Or constantly find long strands of dark hair on his desk.

He hears Sasha’s heavy footsteps outside his office door, and sighs. She’s wearing her boots today. Date tonight, probably.

“Have you looked into Frenchie Brown’s statement?” he asks without looking up, carefully aligning his pens beside his laptop.

“It’s lunchtime, Jon.”

“I didn’t ask about the time, Sasha, I’m perfectly aware of what time it is.”

“Which is why you’re still holed up in here and Martin says you mumbled something dismissive at him when he asked if you were hungry?”

Jon hears Sasha’s footsteps get closer, and finally looks up.

Her hair is… a bit tragic.

He’s probably going to regret this.

“Did you attempt braids again?” Jon asks, taking in the frizziness of her hair and the hairpins that are presently trying to flee for their lives from her particularly messy mane that she hadn’t even attempted to tame into a _ponytail_.

“You know what?” Sasha scowls. “Fuck you.”

“I’m good, thanks.”

Sasha shakes her head. “It’s lunch break.” She holds up a hairtie. “I am coming to you for _help_ , Jon, don’t mock my pain.”

“I make no promises,” Jon says, pushing his chair back away from his desk and gesturing at the floor. “I’ll do my best to coach you through it, but I make no promises.”

“Thank you.” Sasha sighs in relief.

“You need to take the rest of the hairpins out, first.”

“ _I missed some?_ ”

(She missed eight.)

//

Jon doesn’t smoke anymore.

Hasn’t in years, really – he’d broken up with Georgie, spent three weeks chainsmoking and drinking stewed tea, been violently sick, and decided that that was enough and he needed to quit.

Well, hasn’t smoked _regularly_ in years.

He doesn’t smoke now. In part because of Gideon often taking up residence in the smoking area outside the Institute.

But taking a short break outside is a different thing. And admittedly, he has… returned to the habit, a bit, due to the stress of the Archives. It’s a small comfort, which he thinks he can’t be begrudged.

Gideon’s outside today, one hand buried in the pocket of his jacket, idly scrolling through social media. It’s a quiet spot, Jon knows. Nobody wants to stand around somewhere that reeks of cigarette smoke.

…A quiet spot when Gideon isn’t there, at least.

“Mornin’, Archivist,” Gideon says, glancing up when he hears Jon’s footsteps. “…New boots?”

Jon glances down at his feet, at the heavy boots that he’d bought with Sasha, that have joined his regular rotation of footwear (not difficult, considering he has one pair of dress shoes) due to just how _warm_ they are. “Yes.”

“Nice.”

“Do you mind?” Jon asks, holding upu his mostly-empty pack of cigarettes.

“No.” Gideon makes a vague gesture with the hand holding his phone. “Bad day?”

“Mm.”

“Sucks.”

“Mm.”

“Can’t offer a light, sorry. Don’t carry that anymore. Don’t want the temptation, y’know?”

“Mm.” Jon’s lighter is old and beaten up, paint scuffed from years of use.

“Brother tried to give me a new one, when I went to visit. Didn’t realize that I didn’t check a bag, and don’t think you can carry a lighter on a plane. Can’t smoke on a plane, definitely, they talk and talk ‘bout that.”

“Mm.” It’s just damp enough that lighting up is a struggle, but Jon manages.

“But he means well, y’know? Everybody in the family smokes. Bad, we all know it, but we all smoke.”

“Mm.”

Gideon sighs. “Yeah, point taken. Jon?”

Jon nods.

“Jon.” Gideon smiles. His teeth have gotten whiter, free of stains from smoking. “One day I’ll remember all y’all’s names.”

Jon shrugs, exhales a lungful of smoke. “Sorry. It’s been… a day.” He shifts. “Ah, how’s your family?”

“Besides flirting with lung cancer?” Gideon smiles, but it’s a slightly tense one. “Good enough. Good enough. My mother turned seventy-two, so went to visit. All of us congregated, had a nice, big dinner.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Loud, but we had fun.” Gideon’s smile turns genuine. “Had to leave all my hoodies behind. Aunt Lydia’s pretty loud about her disagreeing with me.”

“Ah.” Jon winces. “That’s… unpleasant.”

“No politics around the dinner table,” Gideon agrees. “Or religion, since my brother joined a Catholic congregation and he nearly got in a fight with my sister over it. He deserved it – being obnoxious as hell – but the neighbors showed up to check and see that everything was okay, so.” Gideon shrugs. “No religion around the table, no politics around the table. But the entire house counts as the table, and I was staying there, so I had to leave all my hoodies behind.”

“Would you have even needed them?” Jon asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Maybe at night,” Gideon says. “Gets cold at night, especially this time of year. But normally, no, wouldn’t need much besides a flannel shirt.”

“Mm.”

Gideon sighs, shakes his head. “See you next week, Jon. Probably.”

“Probably,” Jon agrees. “Probably.”

//

“Three even strands, Sasha,” Jon says, and Sasha resists the urge to manually strangle him.

He’s down to one hand, she reasons. She could take him.

…She could take him even if he was fully functional, but that’s irrelevant.

“Like this,” Jon continues, carefully separating her hair with an ease that makes Sasha irritated beyond belief.

“Jon,” Sasha complains. “Don’t you have somewhere better to be?”

“Tim and Martin have gone to a teahouse,” Jon says patiently, “and you’re the one who called me and asked if I would come over and help.”

“Yeah, and this isn’t helping.”

Jon sighs. “Get some more hair oil, and try again,” he prompts.

“ _Jon_.”

“You’re going to have to wash your hair after this,” he points out, wriggling his somewhat greasy hand pointedly. “Try again. You can do this.”

“Do you actually believe in me?”

“Not in the slightest. Now try again.”

//

“You taught me how to braid,” Tim says, after Jon fumbles the comb for the third time in as many minutes. “I can help, if you want.”

Jon tenses.

“It’s not different from what I already do with your hair,” Tim points out. “How many times have we woken up with my hand, or Martin’s, in your hair?”

“…That’s different,” Jon says, and Tim puts his book down, leans forward.

“How? How’s it different? You taught me how to braid a while ago, you were fine with it then.”

“It – it’s different,” Jon insists. “It’s different. I’m fine with that, with you and Martin touching my hair – but. This is different. I’m fine.”

“It’s literally the same, though! Braiding your hair then, braiding your hair now – you said I was good at it and the braids were even. What’s the difference now?”

Jon doesn’t say anything.

So Tim picks his book back up, opens it, and promptly turns it right side up. “Just saying. If you want help, I can help.”

“…You don’t like hair oil,” Jon says, and Tim puts his book back down.

“No, I don’t,” he agrees. “Don’t like the feel of it. I’ve had enough baking accidents that oil all over my hands? Not a good feeling. But unless my nose is lying to me, I don’t need to apply the hair oil for you.” He sighs. “Look, I’m not going to tie you down and braid your hair. Just saying, I can help. If you want.”

//

It takes three weeks for Jon to give up.

Three weeks of walking Sasha through braiding her own hair, as if he doesn’t know the motivation behind her sudden, burning desire to know how to do all manner of braids. Three weeks of fumbling combs and catching his hair on anything and everything, including the lock on his office door, which nearly lost him a chunk of scalp. Three weeks of grabbing a hair tie on the way to the shower, leaving it on the rim of the sink while he wrapped the rubber band around his wrist to keep the glove tight, and realizing after he dried himself off that the hair tie is functionally useless.

He plops himself down in front of Tim on a Saturday morning, when Martin is busy in the kitchen and Tim is still mostly asleep, having gone back to sleep on the couch after going to the gym.

Tim blinks down at Jon. “…Hair?” he guesses after a moment, sleep still thick in his voice.

“Please and thank you,” Jon says, shoving the comb and hair tie at Tim without looking at him.

And Tim takes the objects without comment, carefully takes Jon’s hair in hand and goes about braiding with a gentleness that Jon’s grandmother had never had. Tim’s nails don’t scratch at Jon’s scalp in an unpleasant way, his fingers aren’t rough and hurries as he combs through Jon’s hair, and thought the braid is neat and tight he doesn’t yank on the strands as he works.

And there are little motions, too, that are superfluous but nice nonetheless. Tim carefully strokes a flyaway bit of fringe back into place with a light touch, runs his fingertips across the hair behind Jon’s ear, idly rubs a damp strand between his fingers as he slides it into place.

Tim keeps his nails short.

So there’s no rough scratching, no unpleasant crescents dug into his scalp, and though Tim strokes Jon’s hair as he works, there’s none of the crooning that Jon got so often as a child from older women who were so proud of his hair and complimented it constantly and spoke of nothing else to him, as if Jon himself was a mere accessory to his long hair.

It’s nice.

Jon would greatly prefer this to be unnecessary, but Tim’s careful and gentle and presses a light kiss to the top of Jon’s head when he’s done, and – it’s nice.

The flat smells like bone broth, and Tim’s sure to tease Martin about the seasoning when it’s done and Martin’s making soup or stew or whatever he has in mind, and Jon’s hair is in a neat braid for the first time in _forever_ , and the attention is… it’s nice.

So Jon takes Tim’s hand in his own, presses a small kiss to the palm. “Thank you,” he says quietly, rubbing away a bit of hair oil that had ended up on the back of Tim’s hand.

“…Yeah.” Tim clears his throat, kisses the top of Jon’s head again. “Yeah. Any time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /chants/ timeskip timeskip timeskip timeskip  
> also jon's shit about people braiding his hair? hello that is _literally my experience._ little kids with pretty hair are not petting zoos. also cut your nails before trying to do a kid's hair, they often have sensitive scalps and boy that is _unpleasant._  
>  rant over
> 
> and basically each section with gideon is another day
> 
> ANYWAY  
> given yall dates for when this'll be updated so that i don't forget and procrastinate -- next sunday. fingers crossed.


	58. Chapter 58

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Braiding, curses, and tables, oh my.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hello i am not dead
> 
> two orders of business:   
> first, i mentioned this in the comments on the last chapter, but in my experience in the south, sweatshirts are all you need in re coats. actual coats are largely superfluous. that's why gideon has so many hoodies -- he was born and raised in texas, moved to london, and refuses to get a coat out of spite. he just wears layers, fuck the snow, he doesn't need a coat.   
> second, writing prompts/requests are open over on tumblr @ solitaaaaaairrrre, because dear _god_ i have lost my writing energy and am trying to get it back.

It becomes a ritual.

Probably because Jon’s close to chopping all his hair off due to sheer irritation from it all, Tim thinks – he’d heard muffled ranting at inanimate objects, door handles and office chair arms and papers that catch and pull on Jon’s loose hair, and he’d woken up more than a few times to see Jon’s hair wrapped and tangled around his throat, which could not have been a good feeling.

So it becomes a ritual.

Martin makes tea in the morning, Jon fumbles his way through helping with breakfast to the best of his abilities, and Tim braids Jon’s hair before Jon leaves for work.

And on days when Tim doesn’t go home with Jon and Martin, Jon will often end up sitting in front of Tim at some point during the day with Tim’s hands in his hair.

Tim doesn’t mind, per say.

But he thinks he may never get the smell of bergamot off his hands, which is _very_ disconcerting when he’s trying to cook.

//

Martin, for once, is the first to wake up. He is the first to carefully extract himself from the mess of limbs and men in Jon’s small bed, and _God_ he suddenly has a greater appreciation for Jon’s limberness in clambering over Martin and Tim’s sleeping forms. Because it is significantly more difficult for Martin. Which is probably exacerbated by the fact that he has to stoop in order to avoid braining himself on the ceiling, but nonetheless.

He wants tea. And perhaps some time to knit before anybody else wakes up.

Martin makes it halfway through his cup of tea and eight rows through the jumper sleeve when he has a rather worrying epiphany.

First, he thinks he forgot to slip a stitch properly multiple rows back. Second, he’s close to finishing a skein of yarn and hasn’t wound up another.

Third, this jumper is intended for Jon – _sized_ for Jon, and he’s already finished one sleeve at roughly the appropriate length. Which had truly meant nothing when he began planning it, began working on it; yes, he had been casually pining for some time, and profoundly guilty about his actions during the Leitner, but it was just a jumper.

Now, however?

Now, when they were officially dating, as declared both by the three of them and by Sasha’s teasing?

The jumper would be a bit… problematic.

Martin puts his knitting down on the couch next to him, carefully settles his mug of tea on the floor next to his left foot, pauses his podcast, and buries his face in his hands.

The jumper curse is just an old superstition, he tells himself. Nothing to worry about. Jon had been appropriately appreciative of the socks Martin had given him, nice thick socks with honeycomb cables to protect Jon from blisters from his boots. Jon had been appreciative, giving Martin a small smile that had made Martin’s heart skip a beat, and Martin _knows_ that Jon has been making heavy use of them. Enough use that Martin wants to make another pair or two, with different cable patterns and colors and maybe intarsia cables because Martin hasn’t felt Catholic self-hatred in a while and intarsia cables are a good way to induce that, and –

Clearly, that means that the jumper would be appreciated. Probably used constantly, judging by how much Jon wears the cheap jumpers and cardigans he bought from Amazon.

Clearly.

Clearly, the jumper curse is just a superstition.

_But what if it wasn’t?_

//

“Sasha, do I want to know why you have ‘Martin’ written in capital letters above a long list written in shorthand?” Jon asks mildly, holding a battered green spiral bound notebook.

Sasha yanks the notebook away, tossing a glare at him as she pointedly snaps the notebook shut with a very unsatisfying sound. “None,” she says primly, “of your business.”

“I find that very unlikely,” Jon says, and Sasha resists the urge to hit him.

But, well – Tim’s out extracting information from Christie Waters’ stepbrother, and Martin’s making tea.

The notebook makes a very unsatisfying sound when she hits Jon on the top of the head with it, and he gives her a very unimpressed glance that eerily mimics the kind that her gran – the Welsh one, not Angela – gives Sasha when Sasha hits her head on a doorframe, a glance that calls her ridiculous and silly but is ultimately unsurprised at said aspects, just disappointed.

“And why is there a page dedicated to Tim?” Jon asks, dancing out of the way when Sasha makes to hit him again.

“None of your business,” Sasha repeats firmly.

“ _Doubtful_.”

“Don’t you have a statement to record?” Sasha snaps, opening a drawer in her desk at random and shoving her notebook in beside the stapler.

“I also have information to extract from you.”

Sasha folds her arms, leans forward, looms over Jon.

Jon’s unimpressed expression returns.

His hair is braided today, Sasha notes – not as neatly as Jon himself manages, and there’s a pin keeping a stray lock tucked behind his ear, but definitely neater than she could manage. Which is a low bar, but a metric nonetheless.

“Jon,” Sasha says, mimicking his expression, “if you don’t fuck off, I will replace all your pens with dead ones, one by one, and break your stapler.”

Jon pursed his lips, and gave her a considering look.

“…Yes, I can believe that.”

“Great, now _fuck off_. Your pens are at stake, Jon.”

Jon leaves, and Sasha sighs in relief.

Can’t have him digging _too_ deeply into her investigations. And it’s not like she has a literal red string board.

Yet.

Not for Martin, anyway.

//

“So!” Sasha smiles pleasantly as she sits down across from Martin, clasping her hands together and resting them on the table in front of her. “You like the tea here?”

Martin grimaces, and glances down at his cup. “…Not really? It’s okay, I guess.”

“Shame.” Sasha shakes her head, and looks directly at Martin with a pleasant smile on her face.

She’s wearing makeup, Martin notes. Red lipstick and sharp eyeliner.

And she isn’t saying anything, just staring at him.

“…Is there a reason I’m here?” Martin asks, shifting awkwardly once the silence has gotten thoroughly uncomfortable.

“Yes.”

“…Are you going to tell me what it is?” Martin asks. “It’s Saturday.”

“So it is.” Sasha’s smile widens, and Martin thinks that this is how people feel before they get mauled by a wild animal.

“Sasha?”

“Yes?”

“Why am I here?”

“Well, since you asked so nicely.” Sasha leans forward. “You’re officially dating Jon.”

Martin smiles, though it quickly shifts from genuine to awkward when Sasha’s expression remains exactly the same.

“And since gran can’t really come visit herself, and we thought that dragging you to Bexley would be rude.”

“Um,” Martin offers intelligently.

“Did you hear about the statement surrounding my gran?”

“No?” Martin is relatively certain this is exactly what people feel like when people are about to get mauled.

“Shame. I’ll show it to you on Monday.” Sasha shakes her head. “Anyway, it’s a genuine statement.”

“Oh dear.”

“Mhm. So, I’ll say this quickly.”

Her smile has not changed, and Martin feels vaguely faint.

“If you fuck Jon over, what she’ll do pales in comparison to what I’ll do. Okay?”

Martin squeaks inarticulately, and Sasha’s smile turns genuine as she reaches over to clap him on the shoulder. “Great! See you Monday.”

And with that, she leaves.

Meanwhile, Martin’s life decides to flash before his eyes, which he feels is definitely justified. All things considered.

Did he _want_ to know what the statement entailed?

“You okay, mate?” the barista asks as she wanders by, clearly having just gotten off her shift.

“…Fine,” Martin squeaks.

“Uh-huh.” But she doesn’t press it, just leaves Martin to his terror and mediocre tea, which he can appreciate.

//

“Package for the Jonathan Sims.”

Martin stares blankly at the two burly men who do indeed have a massive package between them. “Uh, what?”

“Says right here,” says the second man.

“I’m not sure –”

“We’ll just leave it with you,” says the first.

“Make sure he gets it,” finishes the second.

“Okay, I will, but you really have to actually –” Martin tries.

But they leave before Martin can get his words out – which is probably for the best, because Martin isn’t sure what he was actually trying to _say_.

He sighs, and looks down at his knitting.

Really, they couldn’t have waited to deliver it until _after_ lunch break?

//

Gideon flicks the lights on in Artefact Storage, and pauses.

There’s a table.

A massive table.

A very interesting table, he thinks, as he approaches, and he shivers unconsciously as he approaches it – because he left his hoodie on the cart, Gideon tells himself.

Definitely.

It’s a very interesting table. 

//

“Gideon,” Jon says as he sidles past the cleaner in question.

“Hm.” Gideon doesn’t take his headphones out, and Jon grimaces as Gideon exhales a lungful of smoke that reeks of artificial blueberry and will _absolutely_ linger in the Archives for hours.

“Must you do that inside?”

“Hm.”

Jon sighs, and walks away.

_Really_. Is that how obnoxious Jon was, when he first started at the Institute and couldn’t manage conversation with anybody?


	59. Chapter 59

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fallout of a shovel talk occurs, and then another shovel talk occurs. 
> 
> Melanie makes an appearance. 
> 
> Vivian makes an unpleasant acquaintance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sup yall
> 
> also:  
> https://solitaaaaaairrrre.tumblr.com/post/635057836001558528/fanart-for-solitaaaaaairrrre-s-scritches-for  
> the _colors_ holy shit i am amazed?? god damn.

Martin looks at the Statement for another long moment, before slowly closing the folder. Angela is - she’s  _ harmless _ , really, looks harmless, looks as harmless as his own babcia. But evidently… 

And Sasha’s comment, well. It’s not that he  _ doubts _ Sasha’s capabilities. He’d seen her kick down a door, and he’s reasonably certain that she could win a knife fight. 

But…

Well.

He definitely didn’t expect Angela to be the same.

And now he’s vaguely worried about that yarn that Angela spun and Jon gave to him. Just on principle.

“So?” Sasha asks, leaning towards him.

“Point taken,” Martin says, somehow resisting the urge to lean away from Sasha. “Point taken.”

Maybe he ought to go to confession, just in case she killed him. Might as well cover his bases.

//

The bell attached to the door jingles slightly as Martin walks in, hands in his pockets.

“Martin!” cries Coinín, looking up from his glass of… something that Martin can’t identify, but is probably vaguely alcoholic. “Long time no see!”

Martin smiles, waves slightly, and wanders over towards the selection of needles. His two-millimeter needles are starting to look a little bent, and he’d rather not end up dropping stitches because they break at an inconvenient time. Knowing his luck, it would probably be during a heel turn. Or raglan increase. Should he ever get around to that sweater again.

“How’s the sweater?” Coinín continues, putting his glass down and picking up his knitting.

“It’s coming along,” Martin says vaguely, shifting through the box. “Did you reorganize this?”

“Mhm, last week,” Carol says, suddenly right behind him, and Martin jumps. “Hello. How’re you?”

“Fine,” Martin squeaks. “How – uh – how are they organized?”

“Double points in the basket to your left, ascending size.” Carol sizes him up, eyes narrowed. “How’s the math?”

“Good, good.” Martin shrugs. “Raglan increases with cables.”

“Always difficult,” Carol says, nodding.

“You don’t design,” Coinín calls from the table, patting down his knitting with a frown. His long ginger hair is pulled back in a messy approximation of a bun, steel double pointed needle stabbed through the mass of hair to keep it in place. “Shit.”

“Lose your needle?” Carol asks, wandering away from Martin.

“Yeah.” Coinín puts his knitting on the table, and starts digging through his backpack.

Carol glances at Martin.

Martin bites his lip to stifle a small laugh, and turns back to the needles.

“Oh, Martin.” Carol pauses next to the table Coinín’s sitting at. It must just be them working; Martin can’t see Marina’s knitting in her usual spot. “Somebody called asking for a jumper’s worth of brown Cascade two-twenty Aran. Would you mind helping me get the bag down?”

“Yeah.” Martin grabs the correct needle size, carries it over to the counter. “Where is it? Over with the rest of the aran weight?”

“Yes. Thanks.” Carol smiles at him, taking the needles and scanning them. “Ten pounds.”

Martin hands over the note, and walks back to the appropriate section.

“Has anyone seen my double point?” Martin hears Coinín ask.

“Not since you were using it last,” Carol responds, straight-faced.

“ _ Shit _ .”

Coinín would find it eventually. Probably before he left.

Probably. And if not, then his therapy rabbit would find it for him when she started chewing on his hair.

//

Melanie slumps in the chair in front of Jon.

“Look,” she says, crossing her arms across her chest, “it’s not like – well.”

“It’s not like anybody would believe you?” Jon asks, clicking on the tape recorder.

“No need to be a dick about it,” Melanie grumbles. “Not like you’re going to believe me, either.”

“You’d be surprised,” Jon says dryly. “Statement of Melanie King…”

//

“So?” Melanie asks. “Is this where you tell me I hallucinated it, call me ridiculous –”

“No.” Jon shook his head. A few months ago, he would have. He would have spouted skepticism, cast doubt on her. Now, he doesn’t. He’s not that much of a  hypocrite. “No, I believe you.”

“—act like I’m paranoid – wait,  _ what _ ?” Melanie squints at him. Her eyeliner is slightly smudged, Jon notes – though that may be on purpose. He doesn’t know  anything about eyeliner, despite Sasha’s attempts to bully him into learning.

“I believe you,” Jon continues, taking the tape out and picking up a pen to label it. “We’ll do follow-up, of course, and we may contact you for further details, but I believe you.”

“…Huh.” Melanie shakes her head, fire-engine red hair hitting her in the face. Her blue-black roots are growing out. The contrast is striking, to say the least. It also clashes slightly with her orange lipstick, but that’s just Jon’s opinion. “Great. Okay. Yeah.” She stands. “I know my way out. Uh, take care, I guess?”

“Thank you.”

“Oh, what happened to your hand?” Melanie gestures at the bandage.

“I had… an accident,” Jon says stiffly, and Melanie shrugs, leaves without a word.

//

“Tim!”

Tim glances over from his phone, waves at Sasha. “One cappuccino, as requested,” he says cheerfully once she comes within range, gesturing at the cardboard cup of coffee.

“How much do I owe you?” Sasha asks, taking the coffee with a grateful smile. It’s  _ cold _ out, and why she wanted to meet in a park, Tim can’t fathom.

“An explanation for why I’m freezing in a park at seven in the morning.”

“Ah.” Sasha’s smile turns into a grin, dark red lipstick contrasting with her teeth. “Of course. Sit, sit.”

“The metal is freezing. I’ll stand,” Tim says flatly.

“Spoilsport.” Sasha shakes her head. “Alright. Down to business.”

“Are we defeating the Huns?”

Sasha lightly hits Tim upside the head with her free hand, but her smile is slightly less predatory.  _ Slightly _ .

“Focus, Tim,” she scolds, blowing on her coffee.

“Tell me what to focus on,” he counters.

Her grin turns predatory again. Tim’s beginning to get tired of the back and forth, though he’s not exactly going to say that to her face. He likes his teeth in their present configuration.

“So. You’re dating Jon, now.”

“Yes.” Tim raises an eyebrow. “This isn’t new.”

“Yeah, you also punched me in the face.” Sasha shrugs, matter of fact.

“I apologized for that!”

“ _ Anyway _ .” Sasha rocks forward on the balls of her feet. “So, you remember gran?”

“The terrifying one or the Welsh one?”

“The Welsh one is also terrifying,” Sasha says immediately. “But you haven’t met her. No, Angela.”

“Yes, Sasha.” Tim sighs. “I remember Angela. Hard not to.”

“Well, you’re dating Jon.”

“ _ Sasha _ .”

“ _ And  _ Angela has basically adopted him as another grandkid. And I have basically adopted him as a brother. I’m just waiting for the paperwork to go through.”

Tim stares. “Sasha, are you giving me the fucking shovel talk?”

Sasha gives him a scowl. “I was, and you  _ ruined  _ it.” She sighs. “Look, since you’re a killjoy. Fuck Jon over, and I’ll beat you to death with a shovel.” She sighs again, and Tim lightly hits her shoulder for her theatrics. “Martin was more fun.”

“That’s a new one.”

“Tim, you’re dating him, aren’t you supposed to be nice?” Sasha scolds.

“I can still tease.” Tim shrugs. “You done, or do you have more?”

“No, that’s pretty much it, since you  _ ruined  _ it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Tim takes a sip of his own coffee. “So, you want to head to the rock-climbing place now, or wait a bit? I know you can get up a 5.10A.”

Sasha scowls, and pointedly doesn’t rub at the impressively large and dark bruise covering her ribs from where she’d slipped on her attempt at a 5.5.

//

Jon rubs at his temple, frowning down at his phone as he weaves past Gideon. His head has been hurting for days, now, in a way that can’t be explained by the constant smell of artificial fruit that Gideon leaves behind. It’s not a smell-based headache. It’s just a throbbing pain in his head that won’t go away.

Dehydration headaches, probably. He’s been getting those ever since the Leitner – cats are often chronically dehydrated, after all, it makes sense that it would take  some time for that to go away.

But still.

His head aches, and he is not looking forward to digging through files for nine hours.

Ten hours.

Maybe eleven.

Jon may have gotten in a bit early.

(Dehydration headaches were stabbing pain, not throbbing. They came and went in a matter of moments, didn’t last as a continuous ache. They were localized in the side of the head, not its entirety.

Jon decides not to think about that.)

//

Fifi sits down squarely in front of Vivian, and  _ growls _ . Ears back, hackles up, growls loud enough that Sasha up in the Archives could probably hear.

“Girl,” Vivian sighs, pivoting on her good leg to look down at Fifi. “Fifi, chill.”

Fifi quiets, but doesn’t relax. She looks ready to pounce at whatever monster is definitely lurking in Artefact Storage – which, if there actually  _ is  _ something loose, that’s something that Vivian would need to bring up –

“Excuse me.” The voice is thick and condescending and comes with a cloud of artificial blueberry-scented vapor that makes Vivian cough and thank god that it was her sister, not her, that ended up with asthma. “Can I get through?”

Vivian turns, wiping streaming eyes, to look at the person who, from tone of voice alone, she’d really like to throttle.

The person there is blond, and is someone that Vivian  _ absolutely  _ wants to throttle.

Because he has an e-cig.

In the Institute proper. In  _ Artefact Storage _ .

“No smoking in here,” Vivian snaps, leaning forward. “Are you new here or something?”

The blond gives her a smile that somehow manages to be both sinister and obnoxious, and exhales another lungful of vapor directly into Vivian’s face.

“No, I’ve been here as long as you.” He looked her up and down. “Longer. Young little thing like you, how’d you manage to get a job?”

“Fuck off.” Vivian waves a hand in front of her face, and Fifi moves to be a solid, unmoving, thirty-kilogram dog shaped barrier between the two of them. “Who’re you? If you’re here to give a statement or something –”

“I’m Gideon.” The man, who is most certainly  _ not  _ Gideon, smiles widely. “Nice to meet you, Vivian. Again.”

He wanders past her, leaves, dragging his squeaky cart of cleaning supplies behind him.

“…This is why I don’t come in early,” Vivian says to Fifi, coughing slightly at the fruit scent that still lingers in the air. “ _ Shit _ . I’m going to have to bathe you again, aren’t I?”

Fifi’s ears droop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay. so. first of all. the rock climbing difficulty grading system that i'm familiar with is the yosemite system -- the easiest is 5.5, then 5.6, 5.7, etc, up to 5.10, at which point you have 5.10A, 5.10B, 5.10C, and 5.10D before you move on to 5.11.  
> i fuckin love rock climbin yall. overhangs. fuckin love overhangs. 
> 
> melanie's clashing makeup is absolutely intentional. she's gay. it's always intentional. i was so close to giving her neon nail polish. 
> 
> more seriously (skip if ur not interested in vague sappiness) -- thank you all so much for the response on the last chapter. ive had to deal with irl stuff (hi, my region was _on fire_ for a bit, so that was fun), and this fell by the wayside. i appreciate every comment, and i'm going to go back and respond to them all over the next few days -- even the ones from. uh. like, 3 months ago. 
> 
> sappiness over now.  
> it's midterms week for me, so the next chapter will be delayed, but i should get it up around american thanksgiving


	60. Chapter 60

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sasha ponders Victorian sexism, and comes into contact with an odd piece of furniture.
> 
> Jon is disappointed by building codes.
> 
> Martin considers the importance of various animals to the continuation of functioning ecosystems. 
> 
> Tim tries to be romantic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i'm a solid 12% certain my tenses are consistent, but ive been doing Original Shit that's in past tense and this is supposed to be in present tense and i give up  
> anyway

“Jon,” Sasha said, twirling her pen in a way that made Jon briefly fear for his life, “remember when we talked about remodeling the Archives?”

“Sasha, I am _not_ going to ask Elias if we can paint the walls yellow,” Jon said with a sigh. “We’ve been over this.”

“I want green, now, actually,” Sasha corrected. “Are you sure?” She leans against the wall, sighs.

"Yes." 

“You’re a killjoy.”

“This place was built with one purpose in mind --”

“The purpose of being spooky and trapping innocent archivists and archival assistants in supernatural job security.” 

Jon gives her an unimpressed look. 

Sasha sighs again, pushes off the wall, and nearly slips. 

Jon watches in terror as she flails, grabs at a bookshelf, _pulls the bookshelf down_ , and lands on her ass in a truly impressive display of grace. 

“Victorian England didn’t have adequate building standards?” Jon suggests. 

“Yeah, Victorian England had a lot of problems, you know,” Sasha grumbles. “I’ve been reading about women in Victorian England, and –”

“ _Sasha_ ,” Jon sighed. “Sasha, you can rant later.”

Sasha rolled her eyes. “Yeah, I know. But, really -- what the fuck? Look at this.” She knocks against the wall. “Hollow. Shouldn’t it be an exterior wall?”

“It should be,” Jon agrees, standing slowly.

Slowly, a wet noise begins to register. Sasha does seem to notice, busy as she is staring curiously at the wall.

“Sasha,” Jon says lowly. “Sasha –”

“I think it’s just plasterboard,” Sasha says, reaching out and tugging at a seam.

The wall gives. Its wriggling, writhing inhabitants don’t fall out in a dramatic tsunami of wet, pale flesh; no, they are packed in like insulation, curling and slithering against each other, eyeless and mindless.

“Sasha, _run!_ ”

Sasha, for once in her life, runs. She grabs Jon’s arm and _runs_ , knocking his tape recorder from his desk in her haste.

“Sasha!” Jon yanks his arm away, stumbling back to his desk as the worms finally escaped, spilling across the floor and covering his _tape recorder, he had to get it, he would not be a mystery –_

“Jon, what are you –”

Jon plunges his arm into the mass, grabs at the cold and now thoroughly _damp_ plastic as pain burst into his arm in a way he hasn’t felt since he burned his fingertip while cooking with Angela.

Sasha grabs him by the back of his sweater, and hauls him away.

Martin is at lunch, at least. So is Tim, so it is just the two of them in the Archives, and Sasha is practically carrying Jon in a way that nobody had in _months,_ ever since they dealt with the Leitner –

“Guys? Is everything – oh _Christ!_ ” Martin asks, peeking into the office and nearly getting bowled over by Sasha.

“Shut up and get the fire extinguishers!” Jon yells, finding his feet despite Sasha’s best efforts at carting him along.

“What?” Martin gapes, looking at Jon’s bloody arm and the writhing mass of _worms_ presently filling his office.

“The CO2! Get the damned CO2!”

Martin obeys.

It isn’t enough, of course.

There are too many worms, _far_ too many, and they are down to four functioning arms between them because Jon’s uninjured arm is now full of fucking _worm holes,_ _that would definitely need to be dealt with soon_ –

//

Martin turns the tape recorder on with an uncomfortably slick finger, because the tape recorder had been covered with worms and really, Martin knows that worms are an important part of the ecosystem but these aren’t normal worms and they’re really just quite disgusting and also probably some kind of parasite that should be studied and then completely exterminated, really, there was no way that they had any kind of beneficial effect like earthworms do.

Jon pants as Sasha leverages another worm out of his arm.

“There,” she says primly, squishing the worm with no small amount of pleasure. “And I just want to say, I wasn’t this dramatic.”

“I think,” Jon says slowly, trying to even out his breath, “that your removal was substantially cleaner.”

“You’re lucky we all carry knives,” Sasha pointed out, wiping her knife clean on her trouser leg. “Not the easiest way, but –”

“Maybe a corkscrew would have been better,” Martin murmurs. “I don’t – is it – well, we’re safe here, at least. Climate controlled.” He laughs, a tad hysteric, gestures at the boxes of files. “Can’t have the spookiness getting ruined by mildew, I guess.”

“They’re better protected than we were,” Jon agrees sourly. “Except now we’re trapped. They can’t get in through the aircon system – not en masse, anyway –”

“Not like they’d need to get in en masse,” Sasha says dryly, and Jon hits her upside the head with the uninjured side of his good hand. “Sorry.”

“But we’re also trapped,” Jon finishes.

“ _Now_ who’s the downer?” Sasha snarks.

Martin looks between the two, wringing his hands slightly. He’s not – maybe he _should_ have gone to confession. Limit the amount of time spent in Purgatory with his mum. (That’s uncalled for, Martin knows, but he doesn’t regret it.)

“Why record it?” Sasha asks after a moment.

“What?” Jon blinks owlishly up at her, and she gestures to the whirring tape recorder.

“Before, in the office. It was stupid going after it like that –”

Jon sighs. “I said I was sorry about that –”

Sasha scowls at him. “You were always going on about how you hated those, and all of a sudden –”

“It’s really not all of a sudden, is it, though?” Martin points out. “It’s – well. You know.” He makes a vague motion, as if miming opening a book.

“Well. Yes.” Jon shrugs, pointedly does not look at Sasha. “I refuse to become another mystery, another Gertrude, and ignoring the fact that for a month you all thought I was a cat –”

Sasha winces, Martin turns beet red, and Jon ignores both.

“—I cannot help but think that there’s something else going on here,” he continues. “Gertrude went missing, and Elias described it as ‘in the line of duty.’ We are – for God’s sake, we’re being attacked by a monstrous worm lady! I refuse to become another mystery that will hang over the head of the next Archivist.” He shakes his head, and a dead worm flies out of his loose braid (loose, because Sasha had helped him that morning instead of Tim). “I refuse. So yes, I grabbed the tape recorder. And if we do become worm food, these recordings will hopefully put off the next idiot who contemplates accepting this promotion.”

“Wouldn’t that make you an idiot?” Martin asks.

“Yes, Martin, that is my point. Anyway –”

“There!” Martin yelps, and Sasha jumps. “There, there, there! I see him!”

“What?” Jon demands, looking at Martin.

“Tim! Tim’s outside!”

“Oh God,” Sasha whispers. “He doesn’t know, he doesn’t see them.”

“I thought you were the one who always wears headphones –” Jon snaps, but shuts his mouth when Sasha flaps a hand at him.

Tim doesn’t notice the worms.

Tim doesn’t notice when Martin and Sasha start shouting at him.

“He can’t hear you!” Jon finally shouts, shutting up both Martin and Sasha with one sentence. “It’s _soundproofed_.”

“What is he doing?” Sasha moans in despair, shaking her head. “No, Tim! Just run! Leave it alone!”

Martin shakes his head, whispering under his breath, and Jon’s not sure if he’s whispering denials or Polish Catholic prayers. 

“Turn around,” Sasha orders Tim, slamming her hand against the wall. “ _Just turn around!_ ”

“Oh God,” Martin says. So he’s actually praying – “There she is, there she is.”

No, not praying, Jon amends. Unless prayers to the Virgin Mary are quite different than what Wikipedia says.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Jon mutters, shaking his head. _There’s nothing they can do_ . There hadn’t been anything he could do when the Leitner vanished, and now there’s nothing he can do when his bloody _boyfriend is about to become worm food –_

“Ah, screw this.”

Jon knows the particular tone in Sasha’s voice. It usually means she’s about to do some spectacularly stupid.

“What – Sasha – no!”

Sasha opens the door and runs out, shouting.

“The tape!” Jon snaps, lunging for the recorder, knocking it from its perch on a pile of boxes.

It clicks off.

//

“A wild tape recorder has appeared,” Tim jokes, picking up the device in question. “Are you still working? Test, test. Huh.” He frowns. “What, are you Nokia brand tape recorders?” He shakes his head, clears his throat. “Statement of Joe Spooky,” he begins, grinning as he imitates Jon’s voice, “regarding sinister happenings in the downtown old –”

“Tim, look out!”

Tim whirls around in time to catch Sasha before she bowls him over, and the tape recorder goes flying.

“ _Sasha_?”

Sasha yanks one of his earbuds out of his ear, ignores his wince. “Behind you! Run!”

Tim turns.

“Oh…”

A certain living worm hive in a tattered dress smiles at him. She has oddly nice teeth, Tim notes absently – apparently worm hive-ness comes with easy access to dental care. Who knew.

“Do you hear their song?”

Sasha grabs Tim by the scruff of the neck, and takes off.

But Tim’s heavier than her, broader than her – she’s tall and strong, but hauling an adult man is difficult at best. When the adult man isn’t Jon, of course.

Sasha loses her grip.

Tim stumbles.

Sasha continues running.

Good for her, Tim notes. She’d definitely survive a horror movie.

//

Jon curses, bangs the tape recorder against the wall, and sighs in relief when it clicks on. “Right. There we go. Martin, what do you see?”

Martin blinks at Jon.

“I can’t really stand up yet,” Jon points out. “I need you to describe what’s going on. For the record.”

“Ah, yeah.” Martin shifts to his knees, peers out the window. “Sure. So, Sasha tackled Tim and there was kind of a struggle, but she made it out of the Archives. That, that was about two minutes ago and she’s gone to get help. Probably. I mean, she – she wouldn’t just _run_ …”

“Believe me,” Jon says dryly, “she’s far too reckless to just run off.” He shakes his head. “Did it look like any of the worms…”

“No, I don’t think so.” Martin shakes his head. “Tim neither, I think, but it was hard to tell. There was just a lot of shouting, and movement, and wriggling…”

Jon wants to shake him. He wants to cry. He does neither. “Stay with it, Martin,” Jon orders. “Tim. What happened to Tim?”

“They got split up and he ran into the office. You said that’s where you made the hole. When you were recording. And they all came through, so… he’s dead. He’s dead in there and he’s covered in worms and that’s it. And I’ll never have to introduce him to my family, so that’ll be a relief because my babcia doesn’t speak English and my cousins live all over the place so times zones will be hard, and –”

“Martin, we don’t know he’s dead,” Jon points out. “He – alive until proven dead.”

“Alive until proven worm food.”

“Yes, that.”

Martin slumped down, sitting on his heels.

“They’re just unclassified parasites,” Jon tries, “they don’t have consciousness, it’s Prentiss that has a consciousness, they can’t plan –”

Martin whirls on him, cheeks red, and Jon nearly falls over in shock.

“Seriously?” Martin demands. “ _Seriously_ ? Tim might have just gotten _eaten_ – our _boyfriend_ , in case you forgot – and you’re – you’re – you’re trying to act like a skeptic? Seriously?”

Jon stares.

“We are hiding from a worm queen in a dress that hasn’t been in style since 2004! How can you act like they’re just ‘unthinking parasites’ and we’re not in danger and all the statements are ridiculous hoaxes brought on by sleep deprivation or drugs or something? You are _full of worm holes_!”

Jon clears his throat.

“ _And_ you’re down to one functioning leg! Can’t you just –” Martin deflates. “You look like a mess.”

“I am a mess,” Jon says dryly. “And… Martin, I’m sorry. You’re right. I – I should know better.”

“You should,” Martin mutters.

“It’s easier,” Jon says plainly. “It’s easier to tell myself that it’s nothing. I spent a month being treated like a _cat_ , Martin, I _know_ that things here are real. But these Statements… it’s not just me. Reading them, I lose myself. I can’t stop reading, I _physically_ can’t stop. Not unless something happens. And – and it’s the same with Sasha. She read the Statement about Angela, and we had to physically rip the papers out of her hand before she would stop reading.”

Martin blanches.

“But Martin…” Jon softens his tone, holds out the hand that he himself had mutilated and wasn’t presently covered in blood and worm guts from clumsy extractions. “It’s not my fault we’re going to be eaten by worms. I’m not secretly in contact with Prentiss orchestrating all of this.”

“I know.” Martin gingerly takes Jon’s hand, careful in how he places his fingers so as to cause as little pain as possible.

“Speaking of, can you see anything?” Jon jerks his head towards the door, and Martin rises to his knees to peer out again.

“Not much. They’re just… there.”

“How many?”

“Too many. And more keep coming up through the floor. It’s wood, I didn’t think they could get through.”

“I don’t think Victorian building codes were very good,” Jon says dryly. “Prentiss?”

“No, I can’t – oh, I can. There she is.”

“What’s she doing?”

“I don’t know. She’s messing with the boxes. She’s… oh, _ick_.”

“What?” Jon demands.

“She’s destroying them. Sort of. Like when flies vomit up acid to pre-digest their food?”

“Thank you for that mental image.”

“Well, it’s accurate!”

//

Sasha gapes at Elias. “ _Seriously_? You’re kidding.”

“You brought a tape recorder,” Elias points out, tone damningly calm and reasonable, as if she were the idiot child overreacting over a small spider. “I thought Jon would appreciate as many supplementary recordings as possible.”

“Well, I don’t think that will matter if Jon becomes worm food.”

Elias sighs. “So, these are the worms you all have been going on about?” he prompts, and Sasha tosses her head angrily.

“Yeah, the ones terrorizing us. You know, that Jon made you get more CO2 cannisters because of? And he said you took him seriously because you suggested changing the fire suppression system to CO2?”

“I’ve been meaning to change the system over for a while anyway. It seemed like a good excuse.”

“And a way to get Jon to stop nagging you.”

Elias shrugs, magnanimous. “If the worms are being so aggressive, it’s a good thing you pulled the alarm. Got everybody to evacuate, I suppose?”

“Yeah. But if I set off the alarm, why hasn’t the bloody suppression system gone off?” Sasha demands.

“Language, Miss James. But as you know, there’s no fire, so no need to suppress anything.”

“Besides a worm siege.”

Elias raises an eyebrow.

“Right, right. Can we set it off manually? I think Jon’s got a lighter somewhere.”

“He’s not smoking in the Archives, is he?” Elias asks. “But, that shouldn’t be necessary. There’s a manual release a few floors down. We can –”

“Wait.”

Elias raises his other eyebrow.

“Will it hurt Jon or Martin?”

Elias has the decency to look vaguely sheepish, at least. “Almost certainly. I’m not a doctor, but I know dumping a lot of CO2 on people isn’t generally considered a good idea. I don’t want to have to find another Archivist so quickly after Gertrude –”

Sasha resists the urge to slap him. He’s the one who knows where the manual release is, not her. She _needs_ him.

“—and as you four have… acclimated so quickly, I don’t want to have to wait for another Archivist to adjust to their situation. But from what you say… I suppose it might be a mercy. You know the situation best, so…?”

Sasha steels herself, swallows thickly. “Let’s go.”

//

Martin flinches at each bang on the wall. “I thought that wall was meant to be solid?”

“So did I,” Jon says. “I don’t suppose we have any sort of weapon?”

“I have knives,” Martin offers.

“So do I, but I’m afraid I’m quite useless at the moment.” Jon shakes his head. “How many of them are outside the door?”

“I don’t know. I can’t see because the window is, you know, covered in worms.”

“Right. Right.” Jon sighs. “Damn. Well, Martin, this is not how I anticipated things ending, but I want to tell you, I forgive you for the paprika.”

“The _paprika_?”

The wall gives.

“Hi guys!” Tim waves merrily, grinning.

“Tim!”

“Tim?” Jon stares. “What – I thought – how did you…?”

“What, no dramatic kiss?” Tim asks, feigning a put out expression.

Jon waves to his blood legs with a deadpan expression.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You made it!” Martin bursts out. “How did you make it?”

“Funny story really. I ran into the office, worms everywhere, horrible death and everything, tripped and fell in some boxes and there were like twenty cans of gas in there.”

Jon looks at Martin.

“I, uh.” Martin shrugs. “I didn’t want the worms to know where they were? And they were extras, so…”

Jon contemplates putting his head in his hands, pain be _damned_.

“Anyway.” Martin turns to Tim. “Are you alright? You seem a bit…”

“Fine!” Tim’s grin is back, and he shakes his head. “Fine! Gas… bit light-headed, you know? Not a lot of ventilation in the tunnels. Or worms! Come on!”

“Into the tunnels?” Jon demands.

“Yeah! Most of the worms are in the Archives, you know?”

“We’re aware, yes.” Jon narrows his eyes. “You – you’re not bitten, are you?”

“Nope, don’t think so! Have a look!”

And then Tim prompts strips off his sweater and shirt and gets halfway through removing his jeans before Martin finally makes an awkward noise and stops Tim in his tracks.

“Yes, thank you, Tim,” Jon says quickly.

“You’re welcome!”

“Please put your shirt back on.”

Tim, thankfully, does so, and saves Martin from dying from all of his blood rushing to his head and potentially causing a cerebral hemorrhage. Or something. Jon hasn’t looked up causes of cerebral hemorrhages.

“Let’s go,” Tim repeats, impatient, and Martin turns to Jon.

“Can you walk?”

“No, I can limp.”

Martin ignores the sarcasm in favor of standing and helping Jon to his feet.

“Then let’s go!”

“Martin,” Jon asks, “could you pass me the tape recorder?”

Wordlessly, Martin does.

“Keep to the interesting bit,” Tim says, leading them back the way he came, into the tunnels. “Like when we’re about to be eaten alive.”

Jon sighs. “A good idea,” he admits, and turns the tape off. “I – I’m glad you’re still alive, Tim.”

“Me too.” Tim turns, and flashes a small smile at Jon and Martin. “Me too.”

//

Sasha paces through Artefact Storage, tape recorder clutched in one hand. With a sigh, she turns it on. “Okay, Jon. I know you’ll want to know what’s been happening. If you haven’t become worm food yet. The worms are on the upper floor. Not as many as down in the Archive, but certainly enough. I set the fire alarm off, so everybody evacuated, because apparently the people in the rest of this building have some sense of fucking self-preservation.” She snorts, shakes her head. “I didn’t see any signs of a fire brigade, but… I’m in Artefact Storage, so. No windows. There was a… well, I got separated from Elias. Due to an influx of worms. I don’t know if he’s okay, but I hope he is, and I hope he managed to get to the manual release of the CO2 system. Better you deal with CO2 poisoning than me deal with a funeral, you know?

“I’m in Artefact Storage, like I said. Which probably tells you something about how bad it is out there.” She shakes her head again, curls bouncing. “Did I tell you I first joined the Institute as a practical researcher? I had to analyze and record and investigate all the stuff in here. It was bullshit – sleep in the rusted chair, take notes, and it gave me nightmares. Would’ve quit – Gran told me to quit – but I couldn’t afford it. Both grans, actually. Angela, I guess she had a reason to suspect, but my other gran – Elizabeth, I’ll introduce you to her sometime, she’s slightly less terrifying than Angela – just said that she had a bad feeling about it. I teased her for quoting Star Wars, but apparently she’d never seen it.”

Sasha clears her throat. “Never understood why they keep this stuff secret. I mean, come on. This would have made even _you_ sympathetic, sticking you down here before the Leitner. I asked Elias about it, but he just muttered something about funding and mission statements. He’s good at changing the subject, isn’t he? And when he doesn’t, it’s to drop some bombshell about supernatural job security and oh, by the way, you can’t actually quit your job, sorry! No, we’re not giving you a raise. Have fun finding a place to live on the shit we pay you.

“Sorry, I’m rambling. No worms, though, so that’s good. I guess they also have a sense of self preservation, don’t they?”

She comes to an abrupt halt. “Oh, hey. I found the table you were talking about.” She narrows her eyes, squinting at it. “That’s creepy as fuck. Moving on.”

Sasha turns on her heel, walking quickly back the way she came. She is not paid enough to deal with an optical illusion table. God help Vivian when she has to research _that_.

//

“Update,” Jon says into the recorder.

“You sound like you’re making an apocalypse log in a horror movie.”

“We _are_ in a horror movie, Tim,” Jon says dryly.

“Just saying.” Tim shakes his head. “You could be a _bit_ more creative.”

“Systems log, star date – what’s the date?”

“That’s worse.”

“ _Update_ ,” Jon continues, giving Tim an unimpressed glance. “I don’t know how long we’ve been down here. These tunnels are a maze, and we don’t know where we are. We have four of the –”

“Martin’s gone,” Tim cuts in.

Jon shoots him a dirty look.

“Hey, I’m helping you walk! You can’t give me that look!”

“Martin,” Jon continues pointedly, “has disappeared. Tim was right about there being fewer worms down here, but they’re faster. More aggressive. None of us have been hit yet, but… during one of the more alarming encounters, Martin ran off.”

“He thought we were right behind him.”

Jon sighs. “In all likelihood, yes. I can’t begrudge him that mistake. Tim was with me, and my leg slowed me down. Martin must have made a turn we didn’t see, or something. We lost him. I remain hopeful that he’s still alive and hasn’t been eaten by strangely aggressive worms.”

“Hopeful.”

“ _Tim_.”

Tim presses an apologetic kiss against the top of Jon’s head.

“Thank you. Tim has managed to find what looks to be an actual trapdoor, so… we don’t need to bludgeon our way through any more drywall. I’m recording this in case –”

“In case the trapdoor opens back into the Archives and Prentiss is there to kill us.”

“…in as many words, yes. Tim?”

Tim lets go of Jon, presses one kiss to his forehead – and then leans down to kiss him fully.

“That must be an awful sound to listen to.”

“I am _trying_ ,” Tim says, with great dignity, “to be vaguely romantic.”

“Thank you. I… appreciate it.”

Tim turns, and opens the door.

“Archivist.”

Jon looks up at Prentiss.

“Ah,” says Tim.

“Shit,” says Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> worm emoji worm emoji  
> one more chapter, and then season two! which. that one's gonna be rough yall. fuck the stranger.  
> also it's been decided, not!gideon is a tory


	61. Chapter 61

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is fallout.
> 
> A lot of fallout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay i know it's been a while, but im chronically ill and boy has that motherfucker been acting up  
> anyway  
> one chapter after this dealing with s1? maybe? i was going to finish s1 up in this chapter, but this bastard is long enough

Medical professionals, Jon decides, are infinitely better at extracting worms than Sasha is. As to be expected, frankly, but the difference is truly staggering.

As is the breadth of stories that one Nurse William tells while tending to Jon, voice raspy and colored with a thick northern accent as he talks about his niece’s misadventures, stories that he somehow manages to put a surprising amount of emotion into, despite the protective equipment largely obscuring William’s face.

“…fell from the tree,” William explains, “screeching like a banshee the entire time. Scared us all, and Joy – that’d be the dog – got over first, and little Mabel was too busy laughing at Joy to cry. No broken bones, just some bruises. Small concussion, too.”

Mabel, Jon’s beginning to think, is setting out to disprove the theory of evolution through sheer childish recklessness.

“And then the next week, she was running around with her little friends, nice boys – twins, Oliver and Michael – and ran face-first into a telephone pole.”

“Good lord,” Jon says.

“Bit clumsy,” William agrees. “Darling girl. Takes after her father.”

Jon raises an eyebrow.

“He’s an idiot,” William explains.

“Ah.”

Mabel’s adventures, William continues, include such riveting exploits as climbing eight meters up a lamppost, riding on the handlebars of Oliver’s bicycle as he rides down a hill at high speeds and walking away from the resulting crash with naught but a bloody nose, playing chicken on her own bicycle with Michael, getting lost in a forest for thirteen hours while her parents were away for the weekend and she was staying with a neighbor, and catching a racoon and taking it to home because she “thought it was a confused cat.”

Theory of evolution, being single-handedly disproved by a six-year-old. It’s rather impressive, Jon has to admit.

Jon goes through another scan before he’s finally released, heavily bandaged and covered in injuries that are sure to scar because that’s just his luck, and completely lacking in uninjured hands. And with a host of stories about Mabel, who really sounds like the protagonist of the kind of classic cartoon his grandmother occasionally put on before she gave up on distracting him with television.

“Good luck,” Nurse William says cheerfully, and Jon can’t even bring himself to fully muster up enough dread due to the sheer number of painkillers he’s on. Because being released means that he’ll face Sasha at some point.

//

Sasha is sitting alone in the hospital waiting room, pretending to read a magazine that’s upside down. She doesn’t appear to have noticed yet.

Jon clears his throat as he limps towards her, and she slowly lowers the magazine.

“Anything interesting?” Jon asks, gesturing towards the magazine with his good hand – _good hand_ being relative, as it’s the one that he himself mutilated, but at least those injuries are well on their way to being healed. As opposed to all of the worm holes covering his other hand.

“Fuck if I know,” Sasha says frankly.

“Where’s Martin?”

“Talking to the police.”

Jon frowns.

“He found Gertrude’s body.” Sasha pauses. “She got shot. Tim’s still in observation.”

Jon stares, head still wheeling at the news of Gertrude getting _shot_. “Is there – do the police have any idea who did it?”

Sasha gives him an unimpressed look. “They probably don’t even have the body yet. Exterminators are still going through the tunnel, making sure all the worms are dead. Martin has to wait at the Institute to take them to the body the moment it’s clear, though.”

Jon sighs, and slumps down into the chair next to Sasha, wincing slightly with the movement. He’s on a substantial amount of painkillers, yes, but they can only do so much.

“I don’t know when Tim will be out,” Sasha says.

Jon holds out his good hand, and Sasha wordlessly hands over a magazine.

//

Tim comes out an hour later. Jon couldn’t talk about what he’d read in the meantime if someone held a gun to his head.

“Jon!”

Jon drops the magazine in surprise, attempts to jump to his feet, and fails miserably. Tim’s walking, at least – well, limping, but he’s on his feet, which is honestly better than Jon expected.

“What took so long?” Sasha asks crossly, closing her magazine and putting it to the side, primly crossing her ankles and giving Tim a steely look.

“They can’t take a joke,” Tim says with a shrug. “Come on, I nearly died, I can’t at least have some fun?”

Sasha turns her gaze skywards, and Jon decides to focus on being relieved that Tim’s alright instead of exasperated that Tim somehow managed to get up to something.

“Where’s Martin?” Tim continues, looking between Jon and Sasha.

“Still at the Institute,” Sasha says, standing. “Come on, I’m sick of hospitals. You two are coming home with me.”

“Visiting the flat of the great Sasha James?” Tim gasps dramatically.

(It’s dramatics or a breakdown, Tim knows. And a breakdown is probably coming. But the least he can manage is to not have that breakdown in public. He still has _some_ pride.)

“Shut up,” Sasha grumbles, pulling out her phone to text Martin, letting him know where they were going. “And come on. I’m getting an Uber. I don’t trust you two to walk back.”

//

Sasha’s flat smells faintly of cleaning supplies, but Jon can’t find it in himself to comment as he allows her to usher him and Tim in, locking the door behind them and propping a chair under the handle – a chair that was waiting patiently right beside the door, which speaks volumes as to how much Prentiss’s siege has actually been affecting Sasha.

“We probably should’ve gone to Jon’s place,” Tim says absently, flopping onto the couch. “I don’t have a toothbrush here.”

“Well, we didn’t,” Sasha says. “I’m putting on tea, you’re taking your painkillers, and you’re both going to sleep.”

Jon opens his mouth.

“Those aren’t suggestions, Jon.”

Jon closes his mouth.

//

Come four in the morning, Sasha’s still awake.

Which is hardly surprising, but usually she’s awake because she’s busy doing something and sleep isn’t relevant yet, not because she’s been fretting herself into an early grave. Jon and Tim got the bed, as per her insistence, and she’s been sitting on the couch, staring at nothing, for hours.

Jon had returned for the tape recorder because he didn’t want to be another mystery.

Elias had shown reluctance in releasing the CO2 only because he didn’t want to potentially deal with breaking in a new Archivist.

(Oh, isn’t it funny how much she had once wanted that job? _It’s some sexist bullshit,_ Tim had snapped. He probably wasn’t wrong. But now Sasha’s more than a bit wary of what being an Archivist in the Magnus Institute means, and maybe she would’ve been better off going into animal husbandry or something. Or opening a butcher shop.)

And Martin had found the corpse of their predecessor, and Tim and Jon had both emerged from the hospital covered in bandages and carrying prescriptions for strong painkillers, and now they had the week off, according to an email from Rosie. Because exterminators would be traipsing through the Institute for a week, ensuring there were no more worms. For a _week_.

And Martin still hadn’t texted her, _or_ Jon, _or_ Tim, and there was little word on the news beyond the original _Exterminators and police and other emergency vehicles brought to local crackpot institute that takes itself too seriously, more to come._

So yes, Sasha was still awake.

Tim and Jon were passed out in her bedroom, one of them snoring softly, Sasha was still shaking slightly in a way completely unrelated to the fact that her flat was slightly chilly, and no word from Martin.

//

Jon stumbles out of bed first, extricating himself from Tim’s grasp with the ease of practice, ignoring the twinges of pain with ease that says that his painkillers are still _very_ much in his system.

Sasha is sitting on her couch, staring at nothing, leg practically vibrating with the speed at which she’s bouncing her foot against the floor. She hasn’t slept.

“Good morning,” Jon says quietly, limping over and collapsing gracelessly on the couch next to her, pretending not to wince at the impact.

It’s a cheap couch.

“I’m still mad at you,” Sasha says absently.

“I thought as much,” Jon agrees, looking to where Sasha’s staring. It’s a particularly uninspiring patch of wall.

“You went back for the tape recorder.”

Jon opens his mouth to reply. Sasha reaches over to clap a hand over his mouth, and nearly pokes him in the eye in the process.

“I’m not done.” Sasha turns to look at him, eyes bright with something he can’t name, surrounded by deep, bruise-like shadows. “You went back for the tape recorder. Even though I know for a fact that your phone has a working recorder. And you stuck your hand in a pile of worms, even though you know that getting worms in your flesh means you’ll end up like Prentiss.”

Jon resists the urge to correct her and say that no, it would likely result in him ending up like the poor statement giver that Sasha had offed with the help of a fire extinguisher and an entity fond of bullying him personally.

“And if we weren’t all the kind of people who carry knives, you’d be _fucked_.” Sasha tilts her head. Her eyes are vacant now, just as bright but undeniably empty.

Jon would prefer righteous anger.

“And you grabbed the tape recorder with your functioning hand,” Sasha continues. “So now you have no functioning hands. Your _good hand_ is the one you ripped the nails out of.”

Jon’s nails are actually growing back quite nicely, strong and hard, but he concedes to her point. In his defense, it’s quite hard to grab anything with a splinted hand.

“You’re covered in worm holes, we’re off work for the foreseeable future, and I still haven’t heard from Martin. Who the _police_ kept behind, because he found Gertrude’s corpse. Tim’s also full of worm holes. Do you have any idea how fucking obnoxious he gets when he can’t work out for an extended time?” Sasha shakes her head. “Real relationship test, there. He gets testy.”

Jon raises his eyebrows, glances down at the hand Sasha still has pressed over his mouth, and she drops it with a sigh.

“You’re telling Gran,” she finishes, and drops her head into her hands.

Jon leans against Sasha’s side. It sends dull pain throbbing through his injuries, makes the bandages pull awkwardly, but there’s little else he can think of to do.

“I let Gran know what happened,” Sasha explains to her hands. “You’re explaining your reasoning for sticking your hand in a pile of evil, sentient worms.”

“In all fairness,” Jon says tentatively, “they weren’t actually _sentient,_ more of a hive mind –”

“If you weren’t injured, I would slap you.”

Jon shut up.

//

Martin woke late, cold and unaccustomed to a bed empty of Jon and sometimes Tim, and promptly pulls the blankets over his head.

He’d gotten back to Jon’s flat long after dark, having led the police through the tunnels to Gertrude’s body, and then answered question after question after question until all he wanted to do was channel his oldest cousin and cuss out the blonde policewoman. (His cousin did not have a very strong sense of self-preservation. It was an issue that had led to her being stabbed half a dozen times. She also wrote lesbian harlequin romance novels, but that wasn’t something she’d told anybody else.)

After a few moments of sulking, Martin sat up and fumbled for his phone. No response to his texts to Sasha –

Because they hadn’t sent.

Martin blinks at the phone screen.

_Not delivered_.

Sasha was going to kill him. Tim was going to kill him. _Jon_ was going to –

Okay, Martin could probably survive Jon’s wrath, but he would probably be disappointed in Martin, which Martin could not handle.

//

Sasha’s phone went off at three in the afternoon, long after Tim had stumbled out of bed and collapsed in a chair at her rickety table, washed down his painkillers with a mug of tea, and promptly zoned out for an hour.

Jon wasn’t much better – small as he was, the side effects hit him harder, and he’d spent much of the day on the couch staring at the TV and not actually absorbing any plot of the murder mystery show that happened to be running all day.

Sasha’s phone ringing, though, startled Tim out of his stupor, and made Jon sit up so fast that he nearly fainted. Sasha’s hands were covered in flour – she’d gone on a bit of a baking binge, because it was that or cry, and crying was exhausting – so it was Tim who answered the phone.

“Did you _just_ finish talking to the police?” he asks incredulously, putting the call on speaker.

“No, no.”

They can practically hear the apologetic grimace through Martin’s tone.

“No, I thought – well – I texted Sasha last night, but – apparently it didn’t go through?”

“Damn straight it didn’t go through,” Sasha mutters, turning back to the pancakes she was making.

“I’m okay,” Martin continues. “I’m back at Jon’s flat – where are you?”

“Sasha’s flat,” Jon calls, slowly rising from the couch and limping over to the table.

“How are you?” Martin asks tentatively. “Are you – are you all okay?”

“They’re full of worm holes,” Sasha says over her shoulder.

“Oh.”

“And Tim’s on too many painkillers to even make a dirty joke about that,” Sasha continues ruthlessly.

“Hey!” Tim attempts to throw a balled-up napkin at her, and misses spectacularly. (Later, he’ll claim that he’s not used to the aerodynamics of non-pens. Jon will be polite enough to not question that. Sasha will replace all of his pens with mechanical pencils, and laugh.)

“She’s not wrong,” Jon says dryly, and Martin laughs.

It’s a weak laugh, somewhat watery, but it’s a laugh nonetheless.

“I’ll – I’ll be over in a bit?” Martin suggests. “I’ll bring tea.”

Tim smiles at the phone, Sasha shouts a request for something mint-based, and Jon pulls the phone over towards him.

“We’ll see you then,” he says quietly, and hangs up.

//

Tim’s dozed off on the couch, Sasha’s halfway through her third batch of muffins – pumpkin, this time – and Jon’s sitting at her rickety little table, like a masochist.

“Sasha,” he says, once she’s set out muffin tins and set to work measuring out globs of batter. “What do you remember from the attack?”

Sasha doesn’t pause in her distribution of the muffin batter. “All of it. Bit memorable, you know?”

“Yes, I – I know.”

Jon doesn’t speak again until the pan of muffins has gone in the oven, and Sasha’s elbow-deep in hot, soapy water as she scrubs the mixing bowl clean.

“Will you record it?”

This time, Sasha does pause. “Excuse me?”

“Make a statement.”

Sasha turns, and Jon hurries on before she can voice her immediate opinion.

“For – posterity.”

She looks disbelievingly at him.

“It’s what we do,” Jon tries. “We archive statements of encounters with the supernatural. You gave a statement surrounding your encounter with Michael. I think it would be a good idea to have first-hand accounts from people who actually saw Prentiss.”

“You want corroboration on her dated dress?” Sasha asks dryly. “That style didn’t age well.”

Jon gives her a look that has just the barest shadow of distain. “No. I want you to talk about what happened, what you saw, what you went through. I think – I think it would be helpful. Should anything similar to Prentiss arise in the future, having statements surrounding her and her actions would be… helpful.”

Sasha folds her arms, heedless of how that spreads hot water across her front. “You want one from the others, too?”

“Yes. Well, I know for a fact that Tim and Martin were the only other ones to deal with Prentiss personally –”

“Gideon did, too,” Sasha corrects.

“…Then I’ll ask him, as well.” Jon resists the urge to shift in his seat. “Well?”

Sasha sighs, and turns back to the sink full of dirty dishes. “Yeah, I’ll do it. When we get back to work.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m not helping you convince the others.”

“I thought as much.”

Sasha huffs, and Jon turns his attention from her to the small timer counting down the seconds to when the muffins would be done. They were already beginning to smell _quite_ good.

//

Sasha puts her headphones in, once Martin arrives. The bread needs more work, and she doesn’t want to have to deal with the spectacle of her pseudo-sibling trying to kiss his boyfriend without messing up his own bandages.

(Or maybe she wants to give them privacy. She’ll deny _that_ to her dying day, though.)

(And besides, the litany of “I was worried” and “I’m sorry” and “I love you” from all three filters through her headphones regardless. The flat is too small to give them adequate privacy, though.)

//

“No.”

“Tim…”

“Jon, if you shove a tape recorder in my face, I’ll fucking eat it.”

Jon blinks at Tim.

“Don’t try me,” Tim warns, crossing his arms, wincing at the movement, and uncrossing them again.

“I’ll do it,” Martin says, if only to alleviate the tension. “It’s – I mean, it’s not like there’s a whole lot I saw that didn’t happen while I was with you two, so.” He shrugs, looking down at his knitting to count the rows of ribbing he’d done. “Won’t take long.” He misses Jon’s grateful expression.

Tim, however, does not.

“I’m not making a bloody statement,” Tim says stubbornly. “Look, I was there with you the entire time. What are you going to get from me that you don’t already know?”

“Is the new cook at the Thai restaurant three blocks over as good as the old one?” Jon asks, and Tim can’t help but snort.

“Yeah, she is. There. Statement fucking ends.”

Martin rolls his eyes fondly, and turns his work. Short row time.

//

_Jon_ , the email begins,

_While I do not exactly see the necessity of my making a formal statement about the events I witnessed during Prentiss’ attack – as it was largely focused on the Archives – I will nonetheless do so. You will find my written statement on your desk when you return to work._

Jon ignores the rest of the email – nagging about his sick leave, how he’s not invincible, things he’s already heard from Sasha half a dozen times. He’ll have Elias’ statement. That’s all that matters, really. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes, i do have a recipe for pumpkin muffins. they're delicious. 
> 
> also this bastard is 8 pages long
> 
> and mabel is an avatar of the spiral
> 
> edit:   
> pumpkin muffin recipe. uses imperial measurements, sorry
> 
> 1 + 2/3 cup flour  
> ¾ cup white sugar  
> 1.25 tablespoon pumpkin pie spice  
> 1.5 teaspoon cinnamon  
> ¼ teaspoon ginger  
> 1/8 teaspoon nutmeg  
> 1/8 teaspoon allspice  
> 1 teaspoon baking soda  
> ¼ teaspoon baking powder  
> ¼ teaspoon salt  
> 2 eggs  
> 8 fluid ounces canned pumpkin (pureed)  
> ½ cup oil or melted butter (make sure the eggs are room temperature if you’re using butter)  
> mix dry ingredients. mix wet ingredients (eggs, pumpkin, oil/butter) in a separate bowl. add wet ingredients to dry. spoon into muffin tins. if using full sized muffin tins, cook for 20 minutes at 350 degrees fahrenheit, or until a knife inserted into the center of a muffin comes out clean. makes roughly 12 muffins.
> 
> pumpkin pie spice:  
> 2 tablespoons ground cinnamon  
> 2 teaspoons ground ginger  
> 2 teaspoons ground nutmeg  
> 1.5 teaspoons ground allspice


	62. Chapter 62

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grandmotherly bonding, reflections, and a gaudy keychain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YALL  
> https://sticksthestrangeone.tumblr.com/post/642085371546648576/scritches-for-the-archivist-chapter-1-junal  
> the grumpiness! the emotion! _the sweaters_

Sasha’s flat is not on the first floor.

Angela supposes that this is, in part, due to the paranoia that Elizabeth had managed to instill in Sasha from a young age. However, that doesn’t mean that climbing multiple sets of stairs is anything besides _annoying_.

One of Jon’s boys – Tim, Angela thinks – opens the door promptly when Angela knocks.

“Angela!” Probably Tim. “Jon’s inside.”

“I should hope so,” Angela says dryly as Tim steps aside and ushers her in, and she pretends not to notice his pained wince. He ought to be more regular with taking his pain meds, considering that he’s bandaged to hell and back. A few more worm holes, Angela muses, and he’d be at home in brown paper packages.

But that’s irrelevant.

“Hey, Gran,” Sasha says from the kitchen, where she’s scrubbing at the counter a bit aggressively. Tim, Angela notes, is busy vacating the room.

“Sasha.” Angela smiles pleasantly, and Sasha pales.

“I’ve got to go out,” Sasha announces. “Will you two be okay?”

“I’m sure we’ll be fine.”

“I was talking about my idiot friends, but that’s good to know.”

“We’ll be okay, Sasha,” Jon says from the couch, where Angela hadn’t noticed him.

There’s blatant relief in Sasha’s body language when she leaves.

“I’d offer you tea, but I think Sasha would sense a disturbance in the universe and come back to yell at me,” Jon says dryly.

“No need. I know where her kettle is.” Angela shucks her coat and scarf, and heads into the little kitchen. “What kind do you want?” She opens the cabinet. “Ah.”

“Sasha only has one kind,” Jon says.

“I see.” Angela takes the box down, sniffs it warily.

“Martin’s gone out to his favorite shop to get more,” Jon says awkwardly. “Apparently we’re out of tea, back at my flat.”

“Well, this is good enough.”

There’s a few minutes of silence as Angela boils water, finds mugs, adds milk and sugar.

Sasha’s couch, Angela muses, ought to be taken out in the back alley and shot for crimes against comfort.

“…Are you going to scold me or not?” Jon asks, after several long moments of simply sitting together, clutching mugs of tea.

“Well, yes,” Angela admits. “I’ll have you know that you got quite a lot of blood on that jumper, and I’ve had to change your next one to black wool. Out of practicality, you know. So I had to ask the local boy to help me move a lamp so I can see my knitting easily.”

Bartholomew had requested lemon shortbread in exchange for shifting around all of the furniture. Fish _still_ smelled like lemon, and hadn’t forgiven Angela for it. It was worse than when she’d made Fish’s first sweater.

“You don’t need to look at your knitting.”

“Just in case.” Angela takes a prim sip of her tea. Her grip on the mug is light, her back is straight, and her ankles are crossed neatly. She’d even taken the time to brush out her hair and dug out one of her nice shawls for this – old habits from when her friends were unkind men with judgmental sisters, and Angela’s finest was never quite fine enough but she could armor herself with elegance nonetheless.

“That’s not what I was talking about, though,” Jon points out. He, thankfully, is propped up against a cushion and wrapped in a thick blanket. No need for him to sit up straight of his own volition. Angela remembers the pain of her own hysterectomy, how it was exacerbated from hours of sitting in a neat, ladylike position.

“I thought I would write a sternly worded note to deliver with your next jumper.”

“Tim can probably recommend where to get a greeting card,” Jon deadpans.

“How is your man? And the other one, how is he?”

“Tim is injured, just like I am,” Jon admits. “And Martin worries.”

“Good of him. If he didn’t, you should break up with him.”

Jon makes a face, and takes a sip of his tea.

“Now, I did want to talk about Miss Prentiss,” Angela admits. “I believe I told you to be careful with other people fond of the things we work with.”

“Prentiss was a sentient hive –” Jon began, voice quickly turning heated, but Angela held up a hand.

“I’m not debating her state of mind. But there are some of us who will be irritable no matter what you do.”

“ _Irritable_ ,” Jon mutters. Angela ignores his sass.

“While I admit that I was worried when Sasha called me, I don’t think scolding will make you feel much better.” Angela smiles briefly. “Fixing people was never my expertise.”

Jon raises an eyebrow.

“How long will you be on your pain medicine?” Angela asks, instead of letting the conversation trail down paths of brown paper packages and worms and stories told whether or not the person telling really _wanted_ to tell. “When will you be able to return to work? I imagine you’ll have to request any kind of accommodation, from what I’ve heard of Elias, in order to make the pain less. Are you able to keep any food down? When I was recovering, I could barely eat at all…”

When their tea is drunk and Angela’s questions have dried up, and Jon can hear Tim’s faint drug-induced snoring, he speaks quietly, unprompted.

“Gertrude was murdered.”

“I thought so.” Angela nods sagely, raises her eyebrows at Jon’s surprised look. “Gertrude had a reputation. She wouldn’t have just kindly walked off to die a peaceful death.” She paused. “Do they know who?”

“…No. Not yet.”

Angela reaches out a hand, somewhat gnarled from an arthritis flare up. “Jon, if it were Sasha, she wouldn’t have just killed one person to get the position she wanted.”

“I know. I –” Jon sighs. “I know.”

//

Sasha had not put a time limit on how long they would be welcome at her flat. She hadn’t said “you have to clear out after three days” or anything of the like.

But Jon had spent enough time stuck in someone else’s flat due to extenuating circumstances, and after a week, Jon and Tim find themselves back in Jon’s flat, the smell of bone broth suffusing the place – broth that would certainly be make into rather bland soup accompanied by a vaguely smug expression on Martin’s face, since Tim had nearly thrown up when Sasha had tried to serve them vaguely spicy curry.

Bone broth and rising bread and brewing tea.

Martin’s gift, Jon muses, is making any place feel undeniably homey. He’s gentle and as harmless as can be, fondness of spiders notwithstanding, but – it’s a very useful gift, Jon supposes.

//

_Jon,_

_I’ll make a statement on what I saw. Get in early, and I’ll record it after I finish my shift._

Gideon less polite in email form. Which, Jon muses, is more than a bit of a feat. God, was that _really_ what he himself was like, during the awkwardness following his promotion?

//

“Thank you, Elias,” Jon says, a bit stiffly. “I’m sure. I won’t be working much today, all I’m doing is collecting Gideon’s statement.”

Elias raises an eyebrow at Jon.

“Though, as I’ve been cleared for minor work,” Jon continues, “I would like to borrow your key to the trapdoor.”

“Would you, now?” Elias asks mildly. “I don’t think a subterranean romp counts as _minor work_.”

“I only want to see for myself.” Jon steels himself. “It would assuage my paranoia.”

“Prentiss is as dead as can be, Jon. Not even she can come back from the dead.”

“Still.”

“It’s a bit ridiculous, but. You won’t let me be, will you?”

“No, if you refuse, I’ll back off,” Jon promises. That’s not to say that he’d truly _accept_ the answer – Martin had shown a skill for breaking and entering, and he doesn’t think that Elias’ office would be particularly challenging. Hell, he could probably break in, were his hands in decent enough shape.

…He’d have to test that.

Elias stares at Jon for a long moment, eyes piercing and evaluating and cold.

“Alright,” he finally says, reaching into a desk drawer. “Here you are.”

The key is attached to a garish eye keychain that feels like it was probably bought in the seventies for less than a pound.

(1976, £0.32, counting tax. The shop had been run by a nice Welsh lady with a bad leg, and she was closing the shop to move home to take care of her ailing grandfather, like a good granddaughter would. Elias was vaguely surprised that the keychain hadn’t broken by now. Elias had been high as a kite and the lady had nearly thrown him out due to the sheer stench he brought in with him. He had not provided good conversation.)

“Bring this back to me by the end of tomorrow,” Elias orders. “That is not negotiable, Jon. I want it back in my desk by then.”

“Of course. Thank you, Elias.” Jon takes the key carefully in his good hand, and slides it into his pocket with an awkward but painless motion. “If you’ll excuse me.”

//

Gideon spoke laconically, dryly, and managed to turn the most terrifying event of Jon’s life into a five-minute statement dull enough that Jon wants to jump in front of a bus.

“…so that’s it.” Gideon looks from Jon to the tape recorder. “Can I go now?”

“Yes, thank you.” Jon shakes his head, coughs slightly at the fumes from the cleaning supplies, and contemplates the benefits of buying potpourri in bulk from Amazon. “That will be all. Statement –”

Gideon got up, loudly enough that the chair legs squeaked painfully against the freshly cleaned floors, and walked out with heavy footsteps.

“—concludes.” Jon sighs, and turns off the tape recorder. Then he produces a second one, bought fresh that morning, and clicks it on. “Supplementary. Considering the events of my promotion, and the book that succeeded that promotion, and the revelation of Gertrude’s murder, I will be performing my own investigation into the circumstances surrounding Gertrude’s death. Tonight, I will be going to make a copy of the key to the tunnels that I will keep on my person, and tomorrow, I will be coming back to the Archives to investigate the tunnels myself. I will be keeping my records on this tape recorder, and will be keeping them separate from the other tapes in the Archives. Thankfully, some of Gertrude’s less refined literature were turned into boxes. I found eight knives and I think a condensed brick of bone dust. I, ah, put that one back. This first tape I will be hiding in my desk. If I get killed – well, I apologize to the sorry _fucker_ who gets roped into succeeding me, as it’s definitely too late for you to get out now.

“The rest of my tapes will be stored in what appears to be a box of trashy romance novels. Unfortunately, you’re going to need to go through those novels to find which ones are boxes and which ones are filler, because I am not foolish enough to label them.” Jon clicks the recorder off, and presses the chunk of cold plastic to his forehead. “Ah, we’re really in it now, aren’t we,” he murmurs, and hides the recorder in his jumper pocket.

Thank God Angela’s fond of pockets.

//

“Jon, it’s Saturday,” Sasha says, and Jon jumps. Then lands awkwardly and nearly falls over, only for Angela to catch his elbow and haul him to his feet in a way that was barely gentle enough to avoid busting open stitches and sending him back to the hospital.

“I have leave,” Jon says stuffily. “And it’s not – unprecedented.”

Sasha gives him an unimpressed look.

“You dyed your hair,” Jon says, for lack of a better diversion.

“Well, we can’t get fired,” Sasha says dryly, tossing freshly bleached curls over one shoulder. “What’s your hair oil, again?”

“I’ll send you a picture.”

“Thanks. Which you’ll take and send in, what, twenty minutes? Because that’s how long it will take you to get back to your flat and take a picture?” Sasha hinted.

“…I have work I want to catch up on,” Jon says stubbornly.

Sasha holds a hand threateningly near a mostly-healed bruise he’d gotten falling over in her flat.

“It won’t take long.”

“Great, then I’ll come with!” Sasha folds her arms against the chill, and looks expectantly at Jon.

Jon looks up at her.

She looks down at him.

“I need to start carrying around a step-stool.”

“Yeah, I’m getting a crick in my neck.”

“And it’s an awkward angle for you,” Jon agrees, finally unlocking the door to the Institute and leading the way in.

“Snapchat angle.” Sasha follows him in, closing and locking the door behind them. “So, what’s this work you’re going to do?”

“…I’m going to explore the tunnels.”

Sasha sighs. “Jon, you’re a fucking idiot. Wait an hour and let me go change into my boots.”

Jon gapes. “You’re coming with?”

“You’re an idiot, but I’m not letting you be an idiot _alone_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i would like to state, for the record, that Fish was unharmed by the conflict with the lemon shortbread. Fish just smells like lemon. didn't consume any of the shortbread, and angela gave fish treats afterwards to deal with the trauma. 
> 
> this is not the end! it's continued in Unguis, so if ur curious,, that's the next work in the series and it continues right where this one leaves off

**Author's Note:**

> you can pry my slanty letters from my cold, dead hands.


End file.
